Her tail—now tailed—left the main street for one of the narrow alleys that gave access to the yards and kitchens of the fashionable houses. The foot traffic was thinner here but dusk was closing in and she decided it was worth the risk to keep close. He was making no attempt to conceal his movements and seemingly had no concern for being followed. But then, why should he? No doubt most of the unfortunates he was sent to dun were perfectly aware of the identity of their creditor. No doubt she herself could have known for the asking if she’d been willing to admit ignorance.
He turned at last into a wicket gate leading to the back entrance of an older brick structure. In quick succession she heard the clacking of a knocker and saw a brief glow of light as the door was opened and closed. And he had entered, so that meant he was recognized and welcomed rather than being left to kick his heels on the step waiting for a response. So. That was as good a sign as she was likely to be given today. She took careful note of the house position and shape and counted down from the end of the block. It would be easy enough to discover who lived there. Easier still if she could simply ask LeFevre, but he’d disapprove of her interest.
* * *
It was a week before she had time to track down the name and it surprised her: Langal. To be sure, he was well known for buying up the debts of the high and falling—or the newly rising—and brokered them as much for influence as for profit. But he was also the princess’s man and his lackey in the warehouse had sworn there was nothing of politics involved. Or…wait…he’d said that he knew better than to get mixed up with the nobility. That could mean only that he was used for ordinary debts, whatever else his master dabbled in. Langal was long established, but not long enough to have held her father’s debts from the beginning. So why would he have bought them up when there was no sensible hope of recovery? He was sure to have gotten them cheaply, but cheap with no return was still expensive. No, there must be some larger plan.
He was known to be one of the Hertes party—the ones who held Aukustin to be the only direct heir. Was there some benefit there? Unlikely. With rumors of a succession council at last, what they wanted were votes or influence on votes. She had no influence over anyone. Unless…
Barbara’s imagination spun out of control. Votes. And only the titled and their heirs-default held votes in council. What if…? What if her father had not merely been well-born but titled? That would explain why his family had destroyed itself to support him. And the title wouldn’t necessarily be extinguished with his death. She had a vague recollection that in default of direct known heirs there was some provision for a delay against potential claimants. What if she had a right of claim? How long would that right last? Langal would lose the ability to sue her for her father’s debts unless he acted before she came of age. Was there a similar limit on what she could claim? No, that wouldn’t make sense. An adult cousin or brother—any near relative—could raise a claim to the title of a childless man. The only thing she would lose at her next birthday—in addition to the burden of his debt—was any claim on her father’s nonexistent purse.
No, not his purse. His nonexistent estate. Except there was an estate—the title lands without which the title couldn’t be held. That had been the baron’s joke on Estefen: he couldn’t have the title without accepting the title-lands and their mortgages. And that was what Langal held over her—if she were right. If he had bought up all her father’s debts, it would include the mortgages that surely must burden any title-lands. And if her father’s last heir failed to claim them before losing the right to do so, the lands would default to Langal. If the title weren’t extinguished already, that would do so for any useful purpose. If there were a title.
Was that what he hoped to gain from her? A bargain to trade a meaningless title and a gutted estate for her vote in favor of Chustin?
The house of cards came tumbling down with one further thought. If that were the goal, then why not approach her directly, as a business proposition? Why make her his enemy with shadows and threats and attacks in the dark? It made no sense. But that returned her to the problem that it made no sense for him to pursue her at all.
She needed to bring another mind to bear on the matter—someone she could debate and test and argue with. LeFevre was out of the question. His oath to the baron would forbid him from helping her to any useful conclusion. But perhaps it was time to open her secrets to Margerit. If anyone could help untangle the puzzle she could. Still the voice whispered at the back of her mind, This is yours alone. It’s private. She owns every other part of your life, why this?
Having made her mind up to break her silence, Barbara waited impatiently in the library after supper for Margerit to join her. That was still their time together—in the absence of outings—to read and debate and learn.
Margerit came at last, bubbling over with the news of the day. “We did it! The Atelpirt ceremony was brilliant today and even the doubters are convinced that between us the vidators will be able to guide the development of a true mystery. And we have a goal finally. Hennis said I was the one who gave them the idea, because of the changes in the Mauriz tutela. We’re going to work on a shield for the entire realm—not just Rotenek. The turris from the old Mauriz mystery will be the basis for it but we’ll weave in all the other major patrons to create a castellum complex. And they asked me to draft up an outline for the structure.”
Her eyes were shining and her cheeks flushed. Barbara had the same thought that had come to her back in Mintun. This was what she had been born for. This was her calling. And she’d had the luck to tumble into a guild that recognized her value. Barbara pushed her own questions and puzzles back into their box. They would keep. The moment had passed. She spread some blank sheets of paper out across the table and they plunged into the work of outlining what they remembered of the old Mauriz rite. Tomorrow there would be another trip to the cathedral library to begin copying it out in full.
Chapter Forty-Three
Margerit
When Margerit asked Brother Iohannes about arrangements to copy out the older Mauriz expositulum, the cathedral librarian gave a flat refusal. “Pens and ink in my bookroom? Are you mad?” She negotiated finally for the loan of a set wax tablets still used for drafting correspondence. It was twice the work; twice the chance for error. And then there was the need to carry the awkward tablets back and forth from home. After the first session, she was ready to find another way.
“I should hire Giseltrut or one of the other poor-scholars to do the copying.”
“Would that be kind?” Barbara asked, pausing a moment in the tidying up of writing supplies. Margerit had no concerns about mixing ink and books in her own library but the limited working space still called for care.
“More than kind, I should think. I’ve been thinking about it—what could be done to help women find more work as scholars. Scribbling isn’t the answer, but if I need the work done…”
“No,” Barbara interrupted softly. “I mean, is it kind to turn a guild-sister into a mere hireling? I won’t pretend your guild treats all the members as equal, but they all swore to give their time and skills for the love of learning. What would it say if you paid one of them for the time she pledged to give freely? It lessens her.”
Margerit didn’t see it. Why should it make a difference? If she paid Giseltrut to do copywork, it wasn’t taking away the time she gave to the guild, only the time she might spend on other odd clerking jobs. But she would drop the matter if Barbara were so very certain it would be taken amiss.
If it hadn’t been for the slowing effect of Lent on the social calendar, the copywork would have been difficult to fit in. The short term was winding to a close and the guild research had doubled her list of readings to complete. A second copying session at the cathedral was managed two days after the first and went more smoothly. Brother Iohannes had recovered from his terror of spilt ink enough to inquire curiously about their project, noting, “Some of the monasteries have compiled collections of the older my
steries. Not only the ones they use themselves, but any they had access to. Copies sometimes find their way into the market when new ones are made.”
That plucked at something in her memory. “Barbara, didn’t you—?”
“Yes, Maisetra,” she answered. “That…ah…bookseller you frequent thought he might have a collection of that sort from Saint Penekiz’s. If you like, I could—”
“Yes, please,” Margerit responded eagerly. The book hadn’t sounded as interesting when she was immersed in theory, but now it might be quite useful.
The librarian turned to Barbara. Ordinarily, Margerit noticed, he treated her with the invisibility she pretended to. “I found that second register from the beginning of the February you were interested in. The one I thought had been misplaced. It was only a few quires that really should have been bound in the next volume but were kept separate for some reason. Did you want to see it now?”
Barbara shook her head. Knowing her reticence, Margerit waited until they were out in the plaiz to ask her about it.
“It’s nothing,” she responded. “Some research I was doing.” Her face closed down in the way it did when questions of her family history came up. Margerit had learned not to push.
* * *
The Easter term at the university was looking to be lonely if not for the guild. Of the seven women in the loose group of girl scholars she had joined back in September, she would be the sole survivor at the lectures she attended. Antuniet still studied, of course, but she’d moved beyond the topics favored in Mihailin’s philosophy lectures and was casting about for a private tutor who would match both her standards and her purse. And she had little use for history and theology but recommended, “You should spend more time on arithmetic and geometry,” when they were comparing their planned courses.
“I can do my own accounts well enough,” Margerit protested. “And Sister Petrunel gave me as good a grounding in the basic quadrivium as anyone has here. If they’d let me read for a degree it would be a different matter. As they won’t, I don’t see wasting my time on subjects that don’t interest me. You never do.”
Antuniet had given her a scornful look. “I’m not talking about reckoning and plotting angles. If you want to build mysteries, look to the structure of proofs. They’ll take you further than formal logic alone.” Margerit tucked that thought away for future reference.
Amiz bade goodbye to the group when the Lenten term ended. “My oldest sister settled her choice at last. They announced the betrothal last night. Mother’s unbending enough to let me join the round of evening parties even though my dancing season won’t begin until autumn.”
Margerit found it hard to understand. Amiz had been a good student. The work came easily to her and if she’d put in the effort she could have been brilliant. But she’d never viewed the university as more than a pleasant distraction while waiting for her true calling.
Barbara still accompanied her, of course. She watched over all her classes now. Margerit never inquired into the details of how Barbara and Marken divided their watch, but it was clear that Marken now had responsibility for the guild time and Barbara had shifted to cover all the lectures. The evenings and other outings they split in some unknown fashion.
“Are you still studying law?” she asked Barbara one day when she realized the subject no longer featured when schedules were negotiated.
She expected Barbara to give the shrug that meant she had once again silently rearranged her life for another’s convenience. Instead she frowned and shook her head. “There isn’t much more I can get from lectures alone. They’re all moving on to disputing cases and—” She gestured to indicate the invisible wall that faced her. “I’m still reading, when I have the time. And LeFevre has been giving me advice. He may not be a doctor of law, but he’s spent most of his life untangling the baron’s affairs.”
* * *
The rituals surrounding Holy Week, both great and small, once again offered a riot of sensation for her newly opened eyes. She felt guilty, almost, to be watching and analyzing and planning when by rights her heart should have been filled only with piety. She sometimes found herself thinking of Sister Petrunel. Her governess had spoken of mysteries only as a means to experience God. What would she think of her former pupil? Did she ever think of her at all or did her duties for the Orisules take all her attention? The guild provided Margerit with plenty of opportunity to explore the mechanistic side of mysteries but few of them were interested in the simple experience of the numinous. In the long hours spent at services, bits of memory kept floating back. Things that Sister Petrunel had said. Margerit realized now how thoroughly and subtly she had discouraged her from questioning her visitationis. Why, if she had no doubts about their divine source?
It was easy enough to be swept away by the play of light and sound. Easy enough for ecstasy to take concrete form. But it was just as easy to start picking apart the patterns of cause and effect; the correlations between the priest and choir and the congregation’s responses and the way the fluctus answered them; the difference between the calm peace of some services and the driving energy of others. And then, in the event that there were other vidators in the crowd, those effects were cover for her own workings.
It had proven surprisingly difficult to find opportunities to renew the lorica over Barbara that had been her first success. Most of the difficulty stemmed from a shyness in telling Barbara about it. There was no good reason not to, but having kept it to herself at first, it became harder and harder to raise the subject. She had a nagging suspicion that Barbara would find it embarrassing to be protected by the one she was sworn to protect. And Margerit was certain that the lorica was protecting her. There had been no further attacks, no sudden street corner encounters, no lurking shadows pointed out warily. To maintain that, she seized every chance to renew the protection when the necessary words could be said in Barbara’s presence with no notice taken.
Chapter Forty-Four
Barbara
Barbara’s search through the baptisms at Saint Mauriz had failed to turn up any likely candidates. With the birth in December, the baptism surely would have happened by Easter. It must have been performed elsewhere. A lesser church in Rotenek was less likely than the parish church on the family lands—wherever that might be. That road went nowhere. A marriage, on the other hand, would only have been made in Rotenek. Especially since—she counted nine months back. If they had gotten to the begetting of heirs promptly, the marriage would have fallen solidly within the social season. She tried to envision her mother: a young girl, newly out. Flattered by the notice of a nobleman. A wedding. A child. The slowly dawning realization of the trap she had fallen into. Barbara turned the pages of the register to March and started working backward.
That search was no more successful than the first. No solemn marriage of Mesner This to Maisetra That, as she guessed her mother must have been. After a month of stolen sessions at the archives she let it go and cast about for some other clue to follow.
* * *
With Easter past, Rotenek was trying to squeeze all possible activity in before flood season. In the grand salle the floor was so crowded that the dancers were doing half-steps to avoid one set running into the next. It was odd, among all that, how one footfall could stand out in a crowded ballroom. Barbara couldn’t have said how she managed to hear the sound: a step behind her, registering first for its intent and then for its familiarity. In the first moment, she stiffened; in the second, she relaxed. A low laugh sounded and the matching voice said, “I know better than to take you by surprise, chérie.”
The woman stepped up beside her at an intimate distance and pressed two fingers to her carmined lips. Barbara tried not to respond when the fingers were brushed against her own mouth. That was all past.
“Mesnera,” she acknowledged with a token bow.
“What’s this? Once you called me Jeanne.”
“Not when I’m on duty,” Barbara said, moving half a step apart. “And no
t in public.”
It had been inevitable that she would see more of the Vicomtesse de Cherdillac now that Mesner Pertinek’s intervention had brought their orbits together once more. This was the first time Jeanne had sought her out. They had parted on perfectly amicable terms but Barbara had no interest in beginning again. From the corner of her eye she could see Jeanne’s black curls spilling out from the bindings of a ribbon fillet to frame that familiar face. Her cheeks were still as delicately blushed, her lips still as rosy as she remembered, though both owed something to the cosmetic box. And the glint in her dark eyes as she leaned closely…Barbara kept her gaze deliberately out toward the dancers.
The vicomtesse glanced in the same direction. “I’ve been watching you watching her,” she said with an edge of mischief in her voice.
“It’s my duty to watch her.” She tried to keep her tone entirely neutral but Jeanne was not put off the scent.
“What’s this? No poetry?”
That drew a startled glance. “I beg your pardon?”
“There was a time when you’d start spouting poetry every time you were flustered. But perhaps you’ve lost your taste for verse.”
“Perhaps you’ve lost your ability to fluster me,” Barbara countered with a faint smile.
Jeanne pouted and turned her gaze back across the room. “And how does she like your poetry?” When she declined to take the bait Jeanne shrugged. “I haven’t yet had a chance to meet Marziel’s little protégée. I think I shall procure an introduction.”
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