Or should have, I admitted inwardly.
“My lord Philip does not want his library to cost anything. He laughs at how much the Roth has spent and doesn’t have any books yet.” He held up a hand as I sputtered. “Doing a thing properly is costly. I know. But King Philip does not desire to do this properly. Merely to have it. More truthfully, to say he does. This is one of the reasons my lord is irked by your arrival. He wants to boast of his library abroad, not have anyone read the books.”
I glanced towards the outer room. “He said Philip told him to read them.”
“Yes.” He smiled but it was not a pleasant smile. “That is my lord’s other reason for his library. To keep Domon busy.”
“He’s incompetent. Why does Philip keep him?”
“You heard him...” He let his words dribble away.
The King my brother wants me to find books... I sighed. “A natural brother?”
“The old king must have been...” He deliberated, then shrugged, apparently not finding words both accurate and tactful. “My lord has a number of bastard siblings. The head cook is another. The resemblance is there, if you look. But my lord makes no secret of it.” His gaze dropped. “He seems to be proud of his father’s...prowess.”
I thought of Francis, flaunting his mistresses, preening as they presented their sons. “I see.”
“Do you?”
I gave him a sharp look.
“Forgive me, lady,” he said. “But I saw your face just now. You wanted him squealing like a speared boar.”
I met his gaze. Domon was a pig. I didn’t repent of wanting to stick him like one. I should, I knew. Not such a safe target after all. Good thing I’d checked my temper. Good thing Hal had arrived when he did.
“I understand,” he said. “He’s arrogant, slovenly, and demanding. He’s been known to strike the servants.” His chin ticked up. I saw a fading bruise high on his cheekbone. “He’s worst to the women, free with his hands and willing to do more. He’s not as drunk as he usually seems.”
I remembered how anxious the servant woman had been to leave.
“It will be tricky for you,” he continued, “here in the library, where he typically is.”
“Where does he sleep?”
“Domon is family. He has a room upstairs.” He tapped his fingers, rustling the parchments. “But he prowls the lower floors, looking for servant women. Lock your door.”
I fingered the hilt of my belt knife. “I can take care of myself.”
He looked startled. “So I assumed. But whatever provocations Domon offers, you must not kill him.”
“Why not?” I knew why, but the question burst out anyway. “Philip doesn’t deserve the favor, but favor it would be.”
“I’ve been told he wasn’t always like this. Despite Domon’s embarrassments, and there have been many, my lord loves his brother, or at least the brother he remembers. He wants to give him every chance to change.”
I sniffed. “I doubt he will.”
“Probably not, but it speaks highly of the king that he hopes for it.”
I uncurled my fingers. “Very well. But if Domon tries to touch me again, he will not live to think better of it.”
“I know how difficult he is. But the family sent him to Vere for good reason. When he is clear, he is clever.” He went quiet. “I feel sorry for him. Sometimes I even like him. I would not see him killed.” He shrugged. “But I like most people. Even you. I think.”
Was he laughing at me? “Who are you?” I asked, more curtly than I’d meant.
“My apologies.” He bowed. “I should have said earlier. I am Hal, lady. Domon’s assistant. And his keeper.”
“He needs one.”
“Yes. As his drinking worsens, so do his problems. Most recently he stole a horse.”
“Philip has no horses for his brother to ride?” My gaze wandered over his shoulder, back to the shelves of books.
“This wasn’t just any horse. The King of Avice sent a messenger to my lord king. A favored messenger. He rode a Verduni stallion.”
My attention returned to him in an instant. The fastest horses in the world—the known world—grazed in the green pastures of Verdun. “Domon stole a Verduni stallion?”
“And rode him until he dropped.”
I winced. The Verduni did not part readily with their horses, particularly stallions. No one in Bruster, not even the High King, owned a Verduni horse. I couldn’t imagine how the King of Avice had acquired one. Let alone what he paid for it. I felt sorry for the stallion—I’d never even seen a Verduni-bred horse up close—but not for Philip.
A worrisome thought wriggled. What message had the King of Avice wanted to get to Ragonne so quickly? Did it have something to do with the Saradenian letters? Had other kingdoms of Valenna received them? Had they heard rumors?
“There was an uproar,” he said mildly.
“I should think so,” I said, not mildly.
“It was best to get Domon out of sight. So my lord created the library.” One finger flicked dust from the topmost parchment sheet in his pile. “If Domon makes more trouble, the king will have to send him away. Only so much can be smoothed over. This is his last chance. I am to help him.”
I barked a laugh. “Your task is even less likely to succeed than mine.”
His gaze went keen. “What is your task?”
I shut my teeth, too late. “My responsibility.”
He held up his hands. “As you say, lady.”
I let my breath out slowly, grateful his control was better than mine, and looked around again, wondering where to begin. “Has Domon taught you something of reading? Do you have any idea what is here?”
“I already knew how to read,” he said, so casually I had to listen to his words again in my head to catch what he had said. “My orders are to keep Domon out of sight and out of trouble, but when I’m here, I may work with the books.” He gestured towards the shelves. “The king allowed me to have his carpenters build these.”
“Your pardon, Doctore—” I began.
He made a brushing motion. “I’m not Vere trained.”
Fascinating. I fought the urge to ask where he had learned. If there was a secret school somewhere, as the Roth desired for Elbany, it wasn’t my concern. Nor was he likely to tell me.
He pulled one of the chairs back from the table. “Would you like to sit, lady?”
When I had, he seated himself as well. “Domon can be difficult to keep track of.” His fingers rustled the parchment sheets. “The work has gone slowly.”
“What are those?”
“Leaves that have come loose from their books. I’ve been trying to find the ones they belong to.”
“Why were you carrying them around?”
“Domon is often ready to leave by this time of day. I was straightening up when I heard you.” His gaze flicked to a cupboard, standing beside a doorway I hadn’t noticed in the gloom. “I was about to put them away. It’s best to not leave loose parchment lying around.” He gave an embarrassed cough. “There’s a privy by the storeroom.”
Using leaves torn from books in the jakes? Such things were spoken of in Vere in the same hushed tones Brusterian children told one another tales of the leoyong. But while rarely seen, and hence often assumed to be legendary, our mountain cats were real, as I had reason to know.
As was this nightmare, apparently. I shuddered, thinking of hands ripping pages from their binding, fouled parchment falling down the garderobe shaft.
“Until Mistress Baynor became head cook, the kitchen staff used to pull out pages to wrap pies. And fish.”
“You’re making that up.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Sometimes I’m surprised they had any pages left.”
I sat up straighter. “Wait. Did you find some of the books here? In this room?”
“Domon did. That room,” he pointed to the second doorway, “was being used as an unofficial wine cellar. The real one is two floors down. Domon discovered this
, of course. Among the bottles were books. Old, he said. Very old.”
I felt my tongue flick out to wet my lips.
“They’re in bad shape, lady,” he said. “The damp is worse in there, and the books were on the floor.”
Philip, Francis, Lord Orlo, the Roth, my father. Ragonne, Elbany, Saradena. All fled. Thought and vision narrowed to the width of that doorway. Very old books.
“—found them but could not read them,” someone was saying.
“What?” I pulled my mind back. A fear too horrible to fully grasp iced through me. I swore in Brusterian. “Are you saying he threw them away?”
“No. They’re here. But—”
Relief flooded me. “That’s enough for now.”
He cocked his head. Listening for Domon, I realized after a moment’s puzzlement. Satisfied, he nodded. “I put them aside to work on after I catalogued the others —”
“Cataloguing? You’ve been cataloguing? Using what method? How—”
“I—”
“Start at the beginning,” I waved a hand. “It’ll be faster. What was it like when you arrived?”
He closed his eyes. Was he recalling the library’s earlier state or seeking the patience to deal with me? “All the rooms on this floor were used for storage. At least one still is. If the harvest is particularly good, so is the room you’ve been given for sleeping.”
I nodded, remembering what he said earlier about a storeroom.
“After Domon found the books and my lord decided to create his library, I was assigned to Domon. How King Philip learned I can read, I don’t know.”
My estimation of Philip grudgingly rose a notch. In this at least he showed competence. You must know your men’s strengths before you can use them. I heard Utor’s voice again. It had been one of our lessons.
“I took the books outside to dry—”
There was a noise from the outer room, like a bottle dropped but not broken.
It was several minutes before he returned.
“I’m sorry, lady. I need to escort Domon to his room. Once he’s settled, I can see to our supper. You must be hungry, and the head cook is a good woman to know.”
Another royal bastard, I remembered. And I was ravenous, I realized once my attention had been diverted from the manuscripts. But everyone in the Three Lands, nobility included, had known hunger often enough to learn to ignore it when necessary.
I looked at the shelves. One hunger bowed before a greater. If he left, I would be alone with the books. Many, many books. “I’ll wait. Take your time.”
Chapter VII
A lightning chill flashed down my back.
I could count on my thumbs the times I’d been alone with a book.
I picked up the nearest with hands that were steady only because I stared at them sternly until they stopped trembling, not wanting to risk dropping a manuscript.
I untied the thongs holding the book shut. The binding, probably once the creamy white of undyed leather but now aged to autumn brown, creaked as it opened. My fingers savored the feel of leather and parchment, and I inhaled, pulling in the warm smell of the binding, the musty aroma of long-closed book, the acrid underscent of ink. Three deep breaths passed before I turned my gaze to the words, letting the moment linger.
One saved the tastiest dish for last, even on a feast day.
In theory, scripts were standardized for easier reading. In practice, every scribe had his own quirks, varying enough that coming to an unfamiliar hand was difficult. Hands differed most in the letters ‘s’ and ‘r’, and in abbreviations. A new manuscript always gave a moment of panic, the page looming with meaningless marks.
The moment passed, the sea of ink settling into recognizable words. The fear heightened the thrill as meaning returned. It was, perhaps, how warriors felt, staring across the field as they ran towards their enemies.
I turned over a leaf, then another. Fascinating. Strange, but fascinating.
Not so much for what it said, but what it was. Records of the king of Ragonne’s means. What he had collected at harvest time, what goods and cash-money had been paid in taxes, what the King’s household spent.
How old was it? Each kingdom’s clerk kept accounts, but on wax tablets, to be wiped clean and reused at the end of the season. Sheep were to shear, and, sometimes, to eat; even then, only the skins too damaged for other uses were given for parchment. Here, too, I knew the depth of the Roth’s commitment to his library. For our parchment he let me choose healthy, undamaged animals from his flocks.
I put it back and reached for another. It also held accounts. Returning it, I stepped to the next shelf. The volume I chose there also contained accounts. A quick look into another manuscript confirmed my suspicion: both shelves were full of account books.
Amazing.
Written records, kept for years...a new king could know what had been collected before, what spent. Lords often sent a new king less revenue, and merchants tried to charge more. With these a new king could prevent such trials of his authority. A king could tell if his steward skimmed money. He could see if a part of his holdings produced less than it was wont, and rest the land for a year.
And these treasures were of no worth here but as jakes-wipes.
I moved on, suddenly urgent, wanting to touch as many manuscripts as possible before Hal returned.
Vitae. The next shelf, as well as the three after, held biographies. Of Ragoni lords, if my cursory search told true. Vere held few vitae, perhaps fewer than Domon had collected from scattered corners and stored in the cellar. Dual pangs of loss and envy prickled. We have become barbarians.
The next two shelves, angling together into the corner, held histories. If I were going to find information about Saradena, it would be here. I flexed my fingers, trying to still the giddy whirl behind my eyes. So many books, but they might yield nothing. If the ones I’d glanced at were representative, they were Ragoni history. I saw no mention of other countries of the Three Lands; how likely was it Saradena would be discussed?
But hope warms quickly, and cools slowly.
I froze, a book in my hand. Much as I would have liked to begin reading the histories at once, it made better sense to continue exploring the library, to understand how Hal had divided and shelved the astonishing collection, before embarking on that search. Reluctantly I lowered the book.
The next two shelves proved a disappointment. Lengthy and poor verse tributes to the victories of Ragoni lords. The sort of thing preserved now only in the memories of harpists, and mercifully forgotten if they died before taking an apprentice. The two following seemed to be the ‘everything else’ section. Each book I picked up was different. The first volume contained proverbs a nobleman collected to instruct his son. Another was a bound volume of letters from a husband, away with his lord at war, giving his wife advice about managing their lands. In another a mother described to her soon-to-be-married daughter the running of a household. One told about the making of medicines and the healing properties of herbs. Two were volumes about how to cook various dishes.
Recipes. Written down! I tried to imagine it: A book in the kitchen, with the cook, spoon in hand, reading what to add next to the pot. Ludicrous.
Yet here was the book, open to a page describing a lentil and mushroom stew. My stomach rumbled plaintively in response. What wonders were here! For these books to have been made...in the past, many people must have been able to read and write, not just scholars of Vere and Vere-trained clerks.
I was almost grateful enough to be civil to Domon.
How long had Hal been gone? There were shelves left. I stepped to the next one and picked up a volume.
Oh.
Ragonne’s books had already exceeded my expectations, indeed surpassed my wildest hopes. I’d been intrigued by the account books, impressed by the vitae, inspired by the histories, and stunned by the miscellany section—but this book, if the whole shelf were like it, was almost painful in its possibilities.
It was
a description of a man’s travels.
I put it back and took up another.
It was also a narration of a journey.
Travel books...
Even more than the histories, here was potential. Not for a marginal reference or an offhand comment either. There could be whole sections, maybe an entire manuscript, about Saradena. The hope that had uncurled like a spring seed sent down slender white roots.
How many? The more there were, the more likely one among them would have something about Saradena. I hurried to the next shelf.
What...?
Stepping back, I exploded in my native language, castigating the lineage, intelligence, and personal habits of those responsible for wasting parchment on...this. Only years of training ensured I did not pitch the manuscript across the room.
I closed the cover, breathing in. I didn’t know books like this existed. Disgusting. And someone had drawn accompanying pictures in the margins! I put it back, reaching hesitantly for another. Surely not? But it was just as lurid. And the pictures were bigger. Foul misuse of literacy. I felt the affront as an almost physical blow.
I moved to the next shelf, the last before the doorway into the third room. It, too, was filled with books of vile nature and questionable value.
I hurried away from the shelf as if it were a contagion that might spread. Hal must have looked at every one as he catalogued. My stomach twisted, hunger fled. At least I wouldn’t have to. These books could have nothing to offer my search.
On the other side of the doorway into the third room stood the cupboard where Hal said he kept loose parchments. I moved towards it, shuddering again at the idea of them finding their way to the jakes. Barbarians.
Then I thought of the books filling the two shelves I’d just left. More worthless books than I would live to see good ones in my library. Perhaps the past, or least parts of it, was not as civilized as their literacy implied.
I reached for the cupboard door but did not open it, my attention caught by the shelf on its other side. Hal said he put the first books Domon had found there, the ones so badly damaged they were unreadable.
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 5