I closed both books. My next step was plain. Find Martin’s vita. There was no point in chewing on the problem of the language further until I had Martin’s vita.
***
Much later, Liath growled when I set a book too close for her liking, so I decided I’d better stop long enough to clean my worktable. I began returning the unreadable books for which I’d found copies to a shelf together, the others to their original places. I carried one at a time, not wanting to make their damage worse by letting one rub against another.
At the fourth I paused, running my fingertips over the binding. It must have been a handsome volume. A design whorled in the leather, coiling across the front to the spine and around to the back. It had been inlaid with gold, once; I saw flecks quiver and wink in the dark channels. Only a very fine book, now, would be given such a splendid binding, if anyone could be found who knew how to make it. I turned the manuscript in my hands, imagining it as it must have been, new and unmarred. The surface had been scored so deep it obscured the design in places. Regretfully I moved to put it back on the shelf.
I stopped, turning the book in my hands, trying to work out why my gut said to look again, that there was more here than I’d consciously seen. I touched the cover, the binding, the spine. Something felt strange. I lifted the book, spine upward, searching with touch and sight.
There. A short, narrow scar in the leather, but thin and clean-edged. It looked like a small knife-score. Intriguing. The time-born wear I could understand, but this seemed intentional. Why would someone damage the book on purpose?
I placed it on the shelf and picked up another manuscript I knew had a copy. Here, too, on the spine, I found a nick.
Moments earlier I had been weary, wondering whether I could continue working. Now I was awake and quick-breathed, rushing to the shelf holding the ancient manuscripts I knew had been copied.
All. All their spines had the nick. Mark. It was a mark.
I turned to the unreadable books I’d identified as vitae but which did not have a copy, and inspected their spines. It took me longer to find, but these were also marked, an indented dot in the binding. Both dots and nicks had probably been made by a knife. Scribes often hold a small knife in their left hands as they copy, to scratch off any mistakes from the quills in their right.
The scribe had coded the ancient books, a small vertical cut for those to be copied, a dot for those not. This discovery would save considerable time. Instead of having to look through each unreadable manuscript, I could use the marks to sort out those that had not been copied. Martin’s should be among them.
It was late, but I had no intention of going to bed. Not with Martin’s vita so close. I wouldn’t be able to read it tonight, I knew. That work would take days. More likely, weeks. But I could find it and touch it.
I gathered the uncopied ancient vitae and settled myself at the table. Liath leapt down to prowl the rooms, then returned, curling herself on one corner of the table.
It went faster than my earlier work. I’d become more accustomed to the script of the old Valenian books, a small hand with blocky letters written so close together that discerning individual words was challenging.
The number decreased steadily, if not rapidly. I found myself listening for the outer door. If Domon had gone back to searching the library during the times he believed I would not be there, he would be arriving soon. Even with Hal’s presence, I did not want to be caught unawares by Domon again.
But the door did not open, and I worked on, uninterrupted. Finally, closing a manuscript, I reached for the next.
None remained.
I blinked, feeling slow and stupid. How could there be none left? I hadn’t found Martin’s yet.
Realization trickled in like a slow spring filling a basin. Martin’s vita was not there. It had not been copied, and the original had not survived. It was all for naught. I leaned back, too weary even to vent the luminous Brusterian erupting in my mind.
After a long while I straightened, steepling my hands. It was time to let this folly go. If I had not pursued it, I’d have finished the vitae by now and be on my way back to Elbany. There had always been little chance Martin’s vita contained information about Saradena. It did not matter now. The vita was lost. As was the time I’d spent looking for it. Mortification spread heat across my face. One would think that, having faced renunciation before, I would have learned to do so with a steadier gaze. I swallowed a tremulous sigh, thinking of Martin, disgraced, disinherited, and now completely forgotten.
I knew what I needed to do. And—what I needed to write to Orlo.
Chapter XIX
Despite the late night, I came to the library the next morning at the usual time. I just wanted to finish the remaining vitae and return to Elbany.
One, maybe two days more.
***
The next day I found it more difficult to concentrate. My gaze kept straying to the shelf of unreadable books. I still longed to tackle them, to try to work out how to read the older language. Hundreds of years had passed since anyone tapped their meaning. I might be able to.
That, however, was not my task.
I turned my gaze back to the book, but it was one of the most dull of the vitae, and my attention strayed again.
Elbany. Soon I’d be back. How had my students progressed in my absence? Would I be allowed a day to check their work before the Roth sent me away again? I’d left them many tasks, more than they could possibly have completed, but they didn’t know that. Returning before they finished their work would be good for them. They’d work harder during my next absence. I smiled. My young scribes didn’t yet know that many times what scribes planned to copy was only tenuously connected to what they finished. Books always took longer than their copyists hoped—
I stood so fast I bumped the table, dislodging Liath. She yowled. I ignored her.
Of course...
I had assumed Martin’s vita would be among those marked as not to be copied, because no copy survived and because Davin’s vita said Martin was disinherited. That was a shaky assumption. Martin might have been too important, or too high a noble, to erase from history.
What if Martin’s vita had been marked to be copied, but either no copy had actually been made, for whatever reason, or the copy itself was lost? It might still be here.
I pressed both hands against the sides of my head. No. I should not waste time with this.
But I knew I would not be able to let it go. Not without looking. Better to get it over quickly.
I brought the nick-marked books to the table, almost grudgingly. It was indulgence of my curiosity and scholarly hunger, not to mention Brusterian stubbornness. I scanned the manuscripts more quickly than I ought, and with less concerted attention. Liath finished devouring a mouse she had caught under Hal’s cupboard and returned, purring self-satisfactorily.
Which was why I was well into the eighth book before I realized I’d seen Martin’s name. More than once.
I flattened my fingers on the leaves. It couldn’t be. But there it was. Martin de Kolone. Twice on this leaf alone. Inhaling shakily, I turned back to the first legible leaf. Running my fingers down the page, I found the name and touched it like a talisman. I turned the leaf. It appeared again. I turned another, and another, brushing my fingertips over his name, hands trembling.
“I found it.” I kept one hand on the book, unwilling to lose contact with it, and reached with the other to stroke Liath’s chin. “I found Martin’s vita.”
***
Exultation at last gave way to fear. What if I couldn’t unravel the language? Worse, what if I spent the time to learn to read it and it contained nothing about Saradena? Failing would be worse than not attempting it at all. I tugged at my braid fretfully.
So I would not fail. But how to begin?
I rose to pace, drawing my belt-knife and flipping it as I walked. I had planned to start with one of the pairs of copied and original vitae I had already found. But what if th
e original of Davin’s vita were here? The brothers’ vitae must have been written about the same time, most likely by the same scribe. The script and language would be the closest to Martin’s I could hope for.
I returned to the shelf of unreadable—perhaps for not much longer—books and began searching the vitae marked to be copied that I hadn’t looked through yet. My luck held. The third manuscript I picked up was Davin’s. It took me longer to find its copy on the vitae shelves than it had the original.
By noon I was at the table with both versions open before me.
When I finally stumbled out that evening, I found two baskets in the outer room. Despite my determination never to be caught unawares again in the library, I hadn’t heard the door open when the servant brought either noon-tide or supper. Cursing my carelessness, despite the scholarly focus that had caused it, and wondering why Domon and Hal had not come, I salvaged something still edible before heading to bed.
***
I had expected difficulty. Even so, the second day’s work was discouraging. The older form of Valenian shared many words with its descendant but I couldn’t get a handhold on how it made meaning. Was isc a word or someone’s name? Was arbore a variation of arbos or were they different words?
For the next three days I drowned growing anxiety in the thrill of the work. Once steeped in the language, I found I could identify more modern words’ ancient counterparts. There were two letters in the older language that did not exist in the modern, but their roles were played by others. Once I figured this out I could find the parallel of words in the Old Valenian which had seemed incomprehensible. But I still couldn’t work out how the ancient language conveyed meaning. Common linking words like ‘of’ and ‘on’ eluded me, and without them, it was impossible to figure out how the other words related to each other.
The soft scratch of wood on stone told me the outer door had opened. I cocked my head, listening, but heard neither Hal and Domon nor the scrape of a basket on the table. More intrigued than concerned, I was on my feet as Mistress Baynor stepped through the doorway.
“Good evening.” My voice, unused for days, sounded strange in my ears.
Small tight lines stood at the corners of her mouth, as if she were worried. Or angry. “I have news.”
“What has happened?”
“Laon returned from Elbany a week ago.”
I skittered about in my mind, Old Valenian cluttering and slowing my thoughts. “Philip’s son. Yes?”
“My feebleminded nephew.” Her lip curled. “If he continues as he did at dinner three nights ago, the secret of Saradena will be known beyond any concealing.”
“What?” The clouds of Old Valenian fled.
“He asked his father—” she stopped, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Openly—at dinner—in front of guests—and servants—about your search, wondering if you had found anything.”
I bit back a Brusterian vulgarity.
“Philip shut him up as quickly and unobtrusively as he could manage, but subtlety is not his strength. Half a dozen servants heard everything that was said.”
“That...” I switched languages.
Her eyebrows climbed. “I expect I agree.” She rubbed her temple. “Are all my kinsmen fools?”
Why did Orlo’s name leap into my head in rebuttal?
“The guests were Laon’s friends,” she went on. “My guess is they had so much wine they will not remember what was said. But my people do. I am in control of my staff, but this gossip is too exciting to suppress.” A corner of her mouth twitched. “I did dilute it.”
I turned from where I’d begun to pace. “What did you do?”
“My children are grown, all but the youngest,” she replied. I nodded, although I hadn’t known until that moment she had any children. Nor had it occurred to me to ask. “Her tutor, Arvetta, is friendly with many of the women on my staff. And, as I have long suspected, a gossip. I told my husband, in her hearing, that Laon had found another Ragoni royal bastard on his latest trip, a woman named Saradena.”
“That,” I exhaled, “is brilliant.”
Her lips pressed thin, but she was clearly pleased. “It seems to have deflected the real story. For now. Too many people heard what Laon truly said. But it confuses the issue. And it has spread quickly. Of course I told my husband later it wasn’t true but I needed to cover up a slip of Laon’s. Don’t worry,” she added. “I didn’t need to tell Daron anything more.” Her eyes shone with affection, and pride in his unmitigated trust. I looked away.
“Arvetta must have told everyone she met for the last two days,” Mistress Baynor continued. “This afternoon I overheard Ina telling it to the rest of the kitchen staff. I had not thought her quite so keen to carry stories.” Her eyes narrowed.
I doubted this boded well for Ina.
“This evening Daron told me our oldest son came by to ask about his new aunt.” She smiled. It was the look of a well-hidden fox scoping out the chickens.
Philip could have no notion of how fortunate he was that Mistress Baynor had not married a rival lord.
“Have you found anything?” she asked abruptly, lips settling back into tense lines.
“Perhaps,” I said. “I’ve found a book that may be useful but I can’t read it. Yet.”
She followed me to the table. I showed her Martin’s vita, and the two versions of Davin’s. “Reading modern Valenian copies in parallel with their Old Valenian originals should allow me to reconstruct Old Valenian enough to read uncopied texts.”
“Like Martin’s vita.”
“Exactly.” Frustration burned my throat. “But it’s not working.”
“Why not?”
“There are fewer words in the old language. I can’t figure out how it signals the relationship of words to each other.”
Her eyebrows drew together.
I tapped Davin’s modern Valenian vita. “The copy might say ‘he sat in the chair.’” I touched the older book. “I can identify the words for ‘he’, ‘sat’, and ‘chair’ in the Old Valenian. But not ‘in’. And it’s crucial. The little words tell us how the big ones go together.”
“This book...will what it has to say be worth this effort?”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can’t be sure until I read it. I don’t know,” I said wearily.
Her face relaxed minutely. “You’ve been busy.”
“It’s been quiet.” I drummed the table, letting my fingers fall heavily to vent my frustration. “That’s a help. But also a worry. Where’s Domon? What’s he doing? He had been coming here in the night, trying to forestall my search.” I wanted to pace again but forced myself not to. “I don’t think they’ve been here. Nothing seems to be touched while I’m gone. I’m worried about Hal.”
“So you did notice they were gone.” Her voice was pleased, but with an undertone of irritation. “I wondered.”
“What?”
“Gone.” Mistress Baynor repeated. “Domon finally embarrassed Philip past endurance or pardon.”
I dropped into my chair. “What happened?”
“Have you heard the rumors Philip means to arrange a marriage of his eldest daughter to the King of Marlon?”
I shook my head, gesturing to the other chair, and she sat.
“The rumors are true. Just over a week ago Marlon’s representative and his wife arrived. He was escorted away to be entertained before the negotiations began the next day. She was left alone briefly as the household staff completed final preparations of their room before sending a servant to bring her there. Ten minutes—maybe—” Mistress Baynor’s voice broke. It was anger, I realized, and shame.
“Domon did not know who the Marlone woman was, or, for once, was actually too drunk to care.” She sighed. “Philip has had his hands full, shielding Domon as much as possible and trying to preserve the marriage agreement.”
I shuddered, remembering my encounter with Domon. “Did he...succeed?”
“No.” Her smile was bitter. “D
omon barely got his hands on her. But it was enough.” Her hand wavered in a measuring gesture. “Domon is not dead. Philip was able to spare him the worst. The Marlone representation would have been within his rights to demand it. But he agreed to settle for Domon’s banishment. The marriage will go forward, but Philip had to increase Micela’s dowry. Substantially.”
I was surprised to feel tension ease from my shoulders. I thought myself willing to be rid of Domon by whatever means presented themselves. But I’d seen the scholar’s gleam in his eyes, however briefly, and that was something. I was glad he was leaving, though. “Where did he go?”
“Verdun. Another natural sister, Berlain, is married to a minor Verduni lord. Domon will be confined to her household.”
“There hasn’t been time to send a messenger to Verdun and back.”
“My sister does not know Domon is coming.”
“Ah. What if Lady Berlain and her husband refuse him?”
A slight smile flickered across her face. “There, too, Philip will have to pay to ease Domon’s path.”
At least the library—and corridors—of the palais would be safe now. But I hoped Hal would find someone in Lady Berlain’s household to bind the injuries his master would surely continue to inflict. I was sorry I’d not bid him farewell.
“Hal will be returning in a week or so.”
“Oh. I assumed…”
She interrupted with a shake of her head. “He’s a good servant. Philip wants him back. Our sister will not be pleased at having to assign one of her own people to Domon. Even less so when she discovers his heavy-handedness.” She yawned. “Pardon. It’s been a long week.”
“I expect so.” I waved off the look of apology as she covered another yawn. “I’m glad he’s coming back before I leave. I would regret not telling him goodbye.”
Her expression softened. “I was irked with you for not having the courtesy to inquire about Hal’s health, when he had been absent so many days and with Domon’s history.”
Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1) Page 13