Homegoing (The Tall Ships of Saradena Book 1)

by Michelle Markey Butler

  “No one’s there,” he said. “Now that I know to, I listen. It’s difficult to sit perfectly still. The chair creaks. The robe shifts. I can hear when someone is above.”

  “Ah.”

  “I expected he would do this.” His eyes closed. “He doesn’t know why Hal, and therefore you, want to search that charter, but just in case, he wants to examine it closely himself first. So the charter will be ‘lost’ for a bit.” His eyes opened a crack. “The longer he delays producing the charter, the longer you and Hal remain in Vere.”

  “What if he never ‘finds’ it?”

  He shook his head, his eyes remaining shuttered. “If ours were lost, the current beneficiary of the charter would be sent to Verun to copy theirs. Him. And the last thing Magistre Ulton wants at present is to be away from Vere.”

  I gasped. “Why have you not burnt the charter already? In his absence you might be able to regain control.”

  His eyes opened, sadness and fatigue sea deep within them. “Would it were so easy to be rid of him. How would I get the charter to burn it? Magistre Ulton is with me nearly all the time. The head librarian, Magistre Borland, is one of his adherents.” The fingers of one hand twitched, as if he had meant to drum them on his chair but lacked the energy.

  I sighed.

  “Even if I managed to destroy the charter, I would have to be certain I could have Vere in hand before Magistre Ulton returned. I am not sure I could do so. Many scholars oppose the changes Honre wanted to make and which I would make, were I able, and they take Magistre Ulton’s part.”

  His head lolled back once more. “Do not be frustrated if I do not seem to fight him as fiercely as you think I should. I have fought. I am tired. And hungry.” He laughed bitterly. “I had forgotten how the mind can be driven to wild distraction, unable to concentrate on anything but the roaring of the belly.” His eyes went to the tray, and the untouched food. “The luton-sickness is worse than the hunger, when I weaken and eat.” He sighed. “I...did you think to tuck away any bits from your breakfast?” His words were whisper quiet, but the mortification beneath was loud as summer thunder.

  I brought out two boiled eggs, saved from my meal and Hal’s. “Maestro...” I touched his hand as I gave him them to him, and he cupped mine with shaking fingers for the span of a dozen heartbeats.

  He ate one of the eggs, putting the other into his belt pouch. “I expect you are bursting to see my books,” he said as soon as his mouth was clear. His voice seemed stronger, but I suspected that was more feigned than real. “I am impatient to let you.” He rose and walked back towards the second door, the one that led to his sleeping quarters. “If luck is with us, Magistre Ulton will delay the charter long enough for us to finish searching them for Saradena.”

  I strained to hear him as he moved away. His words seemed smothered by the thick walls, as if the keep sought to devour him. I went to the door. “May I assist you, Pedagno?”

  “Thank you, but no,” the muffled reply came back. “No one but the Pedagno is supposed to know where they are kept.” I heard a dry chuckle. “A source of much annoyance to Magistre Ulton.” His voice dipped into a surprisingly good imitation of Magistre Ulton’s. “‘Merely a tradition, Pedagno. Surely it should be set aside, in your condition.’”

  “So he knows of the books, but not how to get to them,” I said.

  “He knows about the books, and that they require special training to read,” the Pedagno said. “I am not certain how he came to possess this information.” I heard footfalls. He must have begun moving back towards the door. “I believe he has searched for, but not yet found, where they are kept.”

  I stepped aside as he came through the doorway, arms filled. I scooped the pile from him, shaking my head at his protests, carrying the volumes to his worktable.

  “If he has discovered their hiding place, that’s worrisome. I cannot move them elsewhere.”

  Why? I instantly thought but held my tongue. I doubted he would answer.

  He clicked his tongue in frustration. “It is difficult to know what is really in his mind. When he has time to prepare himself, he lies as easily, if not more so, as he speaks truth.”

  The last of his words came to me through a fog. I set the books carefully on the table and my attention was drawn inescapably to them. There were eight, so thick I felt certain several, if not all, would prove compilatios. “Is this all of them? The ones you and Hal haven’t searched?”

  He laughed, the first sound of genuine amusement I’d heard from him since my arrival.

  “No. There are twenty seven more.”

  My breathing quickened. Thirty five. I wanted to see them, to touch their covers and open their leaves, and choose which seemed most likely to yield information about Saradena.

  But the Pedagno’s breath was also unnaturally quick, and not from excitement. I could not ask him to bring out the others. There was no reason to suppose picking which books to examine by instinct and impressions would result in a more promising selection than those the Pedagno had already brought. It hadn’t in Ragonne. Indeed, the first clue there had come from the least likely source.

  I stacked the books into smaller piles along the back of the table, leaving room for us to work. It was an ordinary flat table, not an angled surface for easier writing and reading. Perhaps he had a proper study table in his inner chamber. That seemed likely. He would need to write letters, among other things, most of which were for no eyes but his own.

  Waving the Pedagno into the chair that already sat before the table, I brought over the one I’d appropriated earlier from its place beside the harp. “Shall we begin?”

  He took the uppermost book from the pile before him. His eyes were shining with the scholar’s fervor of seeking and learning. For the first time since my return, he looked like the maestro I remembered, the man who had left Rothbury only a few months before. I picked up a book and dove in.

  Chapter XI

  It could have been minutes or hours before a knock sounded on the outer door. Either way it was too soon.

  The door opened without the Pedagno’s giving permission. Another slight on his authority. Doctore Orsenius entered, carrying a noon meal upon a tray. The Pedagno’s face settled back into gray lines of strain and dread.

  “Oh,” Doctore Orsenius said, setting the tray down and taking up the old one. “I did not realize Doctora Bann would be here so long. I’m afraid I brought only the Pedagno’s mid-day meal.”

  The Pedagno looked as though he were wondering whether he could muster the strength to be angry. I understood. It was disingenuous for Doctore Orsenius to pretend he did not know I was to spend my days with the Pedagno until Hal completed his business with the charters. Indeed, it was his duty as steward to know such things. Moreover, Doctore Orsenius did not have Magistre Ulton’s skill in subterfuge. His words claimed regret but his tone reveled in the slight.

  I saw an opportunity. “Think nothing of it,” I said. “I don’t expect you to wait upon me with your many responsibilities. I’m happy to fetch my own dinner from the comedor. In fact,” I resisted the urge to shoot the Pedagno a triumphant glance, “tomorrow, and however long I remain in Vere, I’m willing to spare you the trouble of bringing the Pedagno’s meal. It would be no bother to collect his noon-tide while getting mine.”

  Doctore Orsenius’ eyebrows rose. “That’s...a generous offer...” His eyes darted as he sought a way to refuse. Magistre Ulton would be annoyed. The arrangement would make it that much more difficult to taint the Pedagno’s food, at least the noon meal.

  “You are a kind guest,” the Pedagno said, “to provide a service rather than receive one. Doctore Orsenius certainly has other duties to attend to.”

  Doctore Orsenius scowled, surely realizing there was no reasonable way for him to reject the offer. “Very well. But you will need to go to the kitchen. There are no trays in the comedor.”

  “I will,” I said. “Thank you.” He was flustered, and I was glad of it. If he’d b
een thinking clearly, he could have insisted I collect a meal already prepared—that is, corrupted—for the Pedagno. Or I be accompanied by a novicio or servant. Or a novicio or servant would be delighted to bring a meal for both of us. He would realize soon enough he had agreed not only to allow me to fetch the Pedagno’s dinner from the general meal but to walk alone to do so.

  “Thank you,” Doctore Orsenius said unconvincingly. “By your leave, Pedagno?” He glanced toward the door, and the Pedagno waved him out.

  “He did not wait for my leave to enter,” the Pedagno said once the door had closed.

  “That seems to happen regularly,” I said. “Flouting your authority.”

  “Yes,” he eyed the tray with mingled hunger and distrust. “They show their contempt through their actions. I think they also hope to catch me off guard, and glean what they can from observing me before I expect to be seen. Such as where the books are stored.” His gaze returned to me. “Dinner from the general stock? A guest alone in the keep? Magistre Ulton will not be pleased.”

  He looked as if he would say more, then merely nodded. His gaze went back to the tray. “As always. Pottage. Applesauce.” He blew out his breath. “They claim to be thinking of my health. I am ill, I need soft, easily eaten meals. Such food is also easy to add luton to.” He grimaced. “I will maul it, to make it look as if I’ve eaten some. But you’re going now to get other provisions...?”

  I stood. “I’m feeling very hungry.”

  “Do not bring too much,” he said. “They will suspect, of course, you will share with me. Let’s not be blatant about it.”

  ***

  When I returned, the Pedagno was at the table, bent over his book, mouthing words as he worked through the Old Valenian. He walked slowly across the room to join me before the hearth. The tray Doctore Orsenius had brought was pushed to the side, the food upon it not only mangled but mostly gone. I looked the question at him.

  “I put it down the jakes.” His gaze flicked towards the second room.

  “Ah. Hal mentioned that tactic.”

  “I doubt they’ll be fooled but...” His eyes went meaningfully to the tray, and we did not speak again until after we’d eaten. I insisted he take most of it. His protests were perfunctory, their vigor sapped by need. He ate the stew and tucked the bread away for later, as he had the second boiled egg at breakfast. Enough for a meager supper tonight.

  “Hal is a good teacher,” the Pedagno said, later. “But I struggle with the language. It is more difficult to sort the words into meaning than I would have supposed.” He turned a last piece of cheese in his fingers, as if now his thoughts craved the nourishment of activity, however small, more than his body needed food. I smiled to see his hunger slaked so far.

  “I understand that the words build meaning independent of the order in which they come. But it is challenging to apply that knowledge to actual reading.”

  I nodded, remembering my first sluggish efforts to strain sense from the ancient language.

  “I suppose,” he said, breaking off a corner of the cheese, “that should not be surprising. We are taught from the first that order determines how words are understood. The letters of a word must be read as they are written, the words of a sentence must likewise be understood in sequence. Each leaf in a codex unwinds in their order like thread from a spool.” He glanced across the room with heat and amusement at the book he had been studying. “Meaning marches in a set pattern. It does not flit about like a bee in clover.”

  “Meaning through sequence holds for Old Valenian, mostly. Letters in words. Sentences on the page. Leaves in the book. Just not within each sentence.”

  “Yes.” He chewed the bit of cheese. “But when I read it, I cannot do as the book’s writer and original audience must have, understanding as I go. I have to parse the words’ relationships to one another, then in my mind put them into the order in which they would appear in modern Valenian.”

  “But you can read it,” I said. “Two weeks ago, you could not.”

  “Yes,” he said again, more cheerfully, and stood. “That opens most of the secret books to me. And we will find Saradena among them.”

  “Maestro...” I knew that conviction. It was the faith of Vere. Anything you needed to know could be found in a book, if you had enough of them. And if they were old enough. “I want that to be true. But wanting will not make it so.”

  “My death is coming. No,” he held up a hand. “Do not protest and do not look away from it.”

  “Hal—the charter—the food—”

  “I feel it,” he said. “The world is thinning to me, like fog as the morning warms. And I can see...more.” He met my eyes. “It’s here. We’ll find it.”

  “Very well,” I managed.

  “Maudlin,” he said firmly. “Do not think about me. Think about your task. Bruster needs you. Elbany needs you. Not to mention Logan and Ragonne.” He went to the worktable. “This is where your mind must be.”

  ***

  I finished the first book and set it aside. Beside me, the Pedagno glanced up. I shook my head, and he went back to his book. I turned my gaze to the remaining manuscripts. Except for the golden book Hal had brought back from Verdun, these were the oldest books I’d ever held, and I’d had no time yet to simply savor them.

  There was no way to guess from their appearance which might be most likely to contain information about Saradena. Nonetheless I studied the manuscripts as if searching for such a sign. Two had bindings embossed with Elbish interlacing, their strands wider than in Brusterian designs. One had a clasp holding its bulging pages shut. Two had covers once inlayed with precious metal, but it was gone, the leather so damaged it was torn away in parts. One was no longer in its original binding. Its current cover looked to be a hasty work, overlapping the leaves by two fingers’ width on all sides, the unsupported edges sagging. The last was plainly but carefully bound in leather dyed a deep walnut, adorned with a device I did not recognize.

  The walnut-dyed book was on top of the pile closest to me, so at last I gave a half-shrug and lifted it.

  ***

  Awareness returned slowly, and guiltily. I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be searching for. I’d forgotten the Pedagno. I’d forgotten where I was. I traced the device etched in the leather binding, my fingertips skimming the leather’s surface. This book...

  “Pedagno.” My voice seemed strange in my ears, as if I’d not spoken for days, but I knew it was the lure of the book.

  The Pedagno sat bowed over his reading, his concentration written in fissures on his forehead. He hadn’t heard me.

  I touched his arm. His head rose, and turned, his face coming into view slowly, as if reluctant to move away from the page. I waited while his eyes regained focus and found me, puzzled at first by my presence. Then comprehension returned to them.

  “Maudlin?” His gaze darted downward towards the book before him.

  Understanding lifted the corners of my mouth. “Your reading is progressing well?”

  “Haltingly,” he said. “But yes.” His eyes flicked to the manuscript. But his attention was shifting to me, and his gaze moved up. “I can read it. I am reading it. You have given me this. Thank you.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “Your own has returned to you.” Now it was my eyes that flashed downward, towards the book that had held me captive. “But if requital were warranted, this would be guerdon more than generous.”

  “Is it...Saradena?” His voice slipped so low I saw rather than heard his words.

  “Saradena?” I had not forgotten, not entirely. I was supposed to be searching for information about that land, but it had not seemed crucial as I’d delved this book. “No.”

  He looked mildly annoyed. “Then what?”

  My fingers splayed on the binding. “If the volumes in the Pedagno’s collection are all like this book, they are the greatest treasure in the Three Lands.”

  His brows rose. Amusement, tinged with curiosity that had been both stoked an
d stymied, settled over all. “What is it, Maudlin?”

  “A history of Elbany.” I pressed my fingers down, firmly now, on the volume. “Largely how Elbany came to be united, but it refers to earlier events as well. There is vastly more here than what is known in Elbany.” My eyes held his. “You said I could choose books to copy for the Roth’s library. This book,” I gripped it with both hands, “must be among them.”

  “It is one of the secret books.” His face pulled taut with distress. “Kept hidden even within Vere. It cannot leave.”

  “The Roth’s sword,” I went on ruthlessly. “Its forging is described. No one in Elbany remembers it was made from the remnants of an earlier sword, one supposed to have been carried by the greatest Elbish hero who ever lived—”

  “Maudlin—”

  “And the shield. Alfred of Roth had a shield made as well, the device of the newly-united Elbany upon it. The shield is lost and forgotten in Elbany. But not here. You must let me take this book to copy.”

  “I can’t.” Anguish steeped his voice, like oatmeal soaked overnight in milk. “They are secret.”

  “Why?” I leaned towards him, trying to ignore my guilt at the anxiety I was causing him. I needed this book. Elbany needed this book. “Why is it secret? Why should the knowledge in this book be kept from Elbany? This is their past.”

  He spread his hands. “I do not know why these books are kept hidden. But this one is among them.”

  “The collection is secret,” I argued. “Should the knowledge they contain be? For some, perhaps. We haven’t read them all. We don’t know what they say. Perhaps the group is secret because of the books themselves, not what they contain. Because of their great antiquity. Vere’s library is large. Such books could be damaged or lost among the throng. Perhaps they are here to keep them safe, and to do so, kept secret.”

  He looked doubtful. I remembered what he had written in his letter. I shiver to think what might be in them, information too secret to translate and copy into new manuscripts, but too vital to lose. If the ancient books were hidden to keep them physically safe, there were likely copies of them in the library. If, on the other hand, their contents were being concealed, no copies would exist among Vere’s books.