At precisely ten o’clock, the larger door opened and the Magistrix entered, followed by her colleagues. She approached the table and sat, leaving the others to take up standing positions behind her. Gowan looked annoyed; the Magisters looked indifferent.
“Thank you for agreeing to hear my petition, your Majesty,” the Magistrix said, beaming at Zara with her soft brown eyes.
“I am nothing if not reasonable, Magistrix,” Zara said. She didn’t sound reasonable. She sounded distant.
“I ask that you reopen the case against Charles Bancroft. We deny that he is guilty of the crimes for which he was convicted.”
“Much as I trust your word, Magistrix, your denial is not enough to exonerate him.”
“We have the confession of Harvey Baxter, Master Bancroft’s assistant librarian. He admits that he stole books from the Royal Library and sold them, and that in his capacity as acquisitions librarian he embezzled the money intended to buy books for the Library.”
“And did you bring Master Baxter with you? If he admits to these crimes, he should stand trial himself.”
The Magistrix looked sad. “I’m sorry to inform you that Master Baxter is no longer with us. He escaped custody and fled. I wish we could have presented him to you as a token of good faith.”
“So do I.” Zara steepled her fingers in front of her. “And what do you claim Master Bancroft’s role was in all of this?”
“Simple incompetence,” the Magistrix said. “Certain …irregularities in Master Bancroft’s record with the Scholia have only just come to light. He should never have been appointed Royal Librarian.”
“And who is to blame for that? Do you have another convenient scapegoat at large?”
“Your Majesty, I protest. We all make mistakes. We are here to correct one of them.”
“Very well. I withdraw my comment. So you intend to present this new evidence at trial and request that Bancroft’s sentence be reduced because he is guilty of incompetence rather than venality?”
The Magistrix laughed, a sound as soft as her eyes. “We would prefer not to put the Crown to the trouble. We ask that you remand Master Bancroft to our custody. Let us discipline him rather than put a burden on the country.”
“Interesting,” Zara said. “I find your argument compelling. Very well. I will allow you to enact upon Master Bancroft whatever justice the Scholia feels is warranted here.”
“Thank you, your Majesty,” the Magistrix said. She smiled warmly at Zara, and Alison was reminded of the way a parent might smile indulgently at a child who’d just learned to print her name. “There is one more matter.”
“I was under the impression that Master Bancroft’s fate had been disposed of. What more is there?” Zara came close to sounding disingenuous.
“The disposition of the Royal Library, of course,” the Magistrix said, sounding surprised. “Master Bancroft’s unfortunate transgression has left it unsupervised. Master Gowan here is prepared to take up his duties immediately.”
“I apologize for the misunderstanding, Magistrix, but we already have a Royal Librarian,” Zara said.
“Tradition states that the Royal Library is under the direction of the Scholia. Naturally we are responsible for appointing its officers.”
“Tradition is not law, Magistrix.”
“No, but it should not be set aside lightly.”
“I assure you, Magistrix, I have not made this decision lightly. It has been brought to my attention that the Crown has not been sufficiently interested in overseeing the activities of the Royal Librarian, as is evidenced by the unfortunate incidents recently uncovered. I plan to remedy this.”
“Your Majesty is of course welcome to observe Master Gowan’s work at any time. He is a skilled librarian and has many years of experience, which is why we’ve selected him for the position.”
Zara held up a finger before the Magistrix could continue. “Countess, would you stand and describe the condition of the Royal Library when you took office?”
Alison stood, conscious that every eye in the room except Zara’s and Anthony’s was on her, and let her memory of that first sight of the gutted Library fill her with hot anger. “The room was filthy,” she said. “The windows hadn’t been washed in months, perhaps years. Books were missing from the shelves or sat in piles on the dirty floor. The Device meant to regulate the climate in the Library had been broken for some time and the air was damp—”
“What is the purpose of this recitation?” the Magistrix asked, indignant.
“Thank you, Countess, you may be seated. Magistrix, I have investigated the Countess’s report myself. While the peculation occurred exclusively on Charles Bancroft’s watch, it appears the condition of the physical building has been as the Countess describes it for at least seven years, predating not only Master Bancroft’s tenure but that of his predecessor. I am disturbed by your Masters’ attitude toward the Library for which they are assigned to care. I believe that the Scholia has come to view the Library as belonging to it as opposed to a responsibility they owe the Crown. I appreciate the Scholia’s many years of service, but it is my judgment that a new vision is needed.”
The Magistrix stood. “Do you suggest, your Majesty,” she said in a low voice, “that we of the Scholia are not competent to manage the Library?”
“I would never say such a thing,” Zara said. “I suggest your efforts will be better directed elsewhere.”
“That’s insane!” Gowan exclaimed. Zara and the Magistrix both turned their glares on him at the same time, and he subsided.
“I apologize for my subordinate’s language,” the Magistrix said, her teeth grating.
“I accept,” Zara said. “I am certain he is disappointed at not receiving the ripe plum you promised him.”
“Your Majesty, if I may speak boldly, I believe you are making a terrible mistake you will come to regret,” the Magistrix said. “Appointing a non-Scholia librarian means errors will creep into the catalog—”
“Which we no longer have, so you need not worry about that.”
“Worse still, that a new catalog will be created by someone with no experience and little training. Acquisitions will be haphazard instead of conforming to our guidelines. No one will accept apprentices certified by her. The Royal Library is too important to be trusted to anyone but a Scholia-trained librarian.”
“I appreciate your concern. Again, I thank you for your years of service, but my decision has been made. Alison Quinn has my full confidence.” Zara stood, indicating that the meeting was over, but the Magistrix wasn’t finished yet.
“So you refuse to accept our appointee?”
“I do.”
“And you choose to insult the Scholia in this grave fashion?”
“I mean no insult. It’s your choice whether to construe my actions as such.”
“Then you are willing to accept the consequences of your actions?”
Zara turned her glass-cutting gaze on the Magistrix. “What do you suggest those consequences might be, Magistrix? Think carefully before you answer.”
The Magistrix returned her glare for glare. “The Scholia is the preeminent educational institution in Tremontane. We guarantee the abilities of our students and Masters and receive commensurate respect for those abilities. If you refuse to accept our candidate, it might be seen as an accusation of non-confidence in the Scholia. I cannot guarantee our Masters will not feel insulted by it, nor predict what they might choose to do in that event.”
“Do you threaten me, Magistrix?”
“Merely a warning. Consider it. If you decide to change your mind, no one will hold it against you.”
Zara nodded once. “I appreciate the warning, Magistrix. I maintain a great respect for the Scholia. But I am not pleased at how our most recent Royal Librarians have treated their charge. Do not mistake my respect for you and your office for a willingness to allow that state of affairs to continue. Good day, Magistrix.”
The moment the door shut behind t
he Magistrix, a man seated behind the Queen said, “Well, that was no surprise.”
“I was surprised she didn’t threaten you more overtly,” a woman added. She stood and came around Zara’s throne-chair. “She’s in a strong position thanks to you giving her Bancroft.”
“Bancroft is irrelevant, Fern,” Zara said. She rose and turned to face her councilors. “As is the Library. You all know why the Magistrix is really here.”
“The endowment,” Clara Unwin said, her mouth twisted as though she’d just bitten a lemon. “You can’t give it to her, Zara.”
“Why not?” said the man who’d first spoken. His round, smooth, unlined face made him look like a doll carved of some fair wood. “If we support the Scholia, why not show that support? Give them the greater independence they want?”
“A former Master would be expected to have that outlook,” Unwin said.
“Do you suggest I’m less than loyal to this Council?”
“I suggest that your perspective is different. Your support of the Magistrix is something else that is no surprise.”
“Enough,” Zara said. “Roger, your insights are valuable. Clara, protecting the kingdom’s financial stability is your duty. I expect you to respect one another’s views.”
Unwin’s lips thinned, but she nodded, a curt motion of her head. Roger said, “I meant no disrespect.”
Zara waved that away. “We’ll meet later today to prepare a strategy. Countess, thank you for your service to the Crown. Again, I assure you that you have my full support.”
Thus dismissed, Alison walked back to the Library, deep in thought. Roger must be Roger Lestrange, chief of the Commerce department and Zara’s main antagonist on the Council. He certainly made no secret of his partisanship. Alison was glad she only had the antagonism of the Magisters to worry about.
She spent the rest of the day hiring scribes and purchasing supplies, including thousands of little cards, pink and blue and white. While she was waiting for them to be delivered, she went from department to department until she found one that could provide her with a dozen wheeled carts, and led a procession of burly men pushing the incongruously tiny carts back to the Library. There she found the apprentices had cleared away the books from the desks and arranged writing utensils and stacks of cards on each one. Henry was sorting books again at the librarians’ desk. He smiled when he saw her.
“You look like a duckling leading a line of mother ducks behind you,” he said.
Alison thanked her helpers and watched them file out again. “I wonder how I could go on without burly men to do the heavy lifting for me? I can barely manage the books.”
“Lift enough of them, and you’ll have arms like your burly men.” Henry hefted two large books in his hands and lifted them over his head.
“I’d rather not, thanks.”
“I’ve made reservations for us for tomorrow night,” Henry said. “I hope you haven’t made other plans.”
“No, I’m all yours for the evening,” she said lightly, and was disconcerted at how her words changed Henry’s expression again, if briefly. A thought dashed across her mind that Henry might be thinking of something other than a friendly meal. No, she was being foolish. She had never thought of Henry as anything but her best friend’s husband, and she was sure he only saw her as a former student and friend. She had to stop believing that every man she interacted with had ulterior motives. She remembered what she’d promised her father. Henry wasn’t exactly young, but he was a man and she didn’t have to shut him out on the basis of what was probably a stupid, unfounded suspicion. Even so, she had to work at being normal around him for the rest of the afternoon.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, she met Henry for breakfast and the two of them walked to the Library together. “I asked the scribes to arrive in about an hour,” she told him. “Just in case there are any last things to arrange.”
“You’re excited about this,” Henry said.
“I am. Is it silly to be excited about something as boring as a catalog? It’s just that I keep reaching these landmarks that make me feel like we’re really getting started. Cleaning the Library. Hiring an excellent assistant Librarian.” She grinned at him.
“Yes, your assistant Librarian is remarkable, isn’t he? You’re probably not paying him enough.”
“You’re fortunate. I don’t know if I’m being paid at all.”
They turned the corner into the long hallway outside the Library. As they approached the scriptorium door, Henry said, “What’s that on the floor?”
“It looks like—oh, no, sweet heaven, no,” Alison said, and began to run, her heart pounding more fiercely than her activity warranted. She came skidding to a halt in front of the door and knelt, shaking, before it. The latch and the lock had been pried away from the door and lay shattered on the floor, twisted almost out of recognition. Alison put her hand on the scriptorium door and it opened without resistance. “No,” she repeated when she saw what lay beyond it.
Long streaks of ink painted the floor and the walls and striped the desks, and shards of empty ink jugs were scattered across the room. The apprentices’ careful arrangements of writing materials lay torn and broken, the fragments of self-inking pens piled neatly on each desk as if some monstrous creature had sat there and calmly snapped each pen in half, leaving behind tiny puddles of ink and gleaming silver beads still imbued with source. The piles of books had been knocked over. Her beautiful magnifying Devices were smashed into a million sparkling pieces of twisted metal. And the cards, thousands of them, lay in drifts across the floor and on every conceivable surface.
Alison rushed to the nearest heap of books. “They’re undamaged,” she said, then realized what that meant. “Those bastards,” she breathed out.
“The Scholia,” Henry agreed.
Alison kicked a mostly intact ink jug. “If they think they can intimidate me by making a mess, they are sorely mistaken.”
“This is a really big mess, Alison.”
She turned on him. “So? You think there’s a point at which the mess becomes so big I should give in to them? Allow someone who can think this way take over my Library?”
Henry shook his head. “You’re right.” He bent to pick up an inkwell. “Margaret didn’t do this, though. She prefers verbal manipulation and never wants to get her hands dirty. When I was fired, it was mostly because she whispered allegations about me until everyone knew how to think. But she’s not above hinting to someone that she’d like you dealt with.”
“I will bet you anything you like Gowan’s behind it.” She looked around, feeling despair despite her brave words. “Wait here for the apprentices. I’ll get someone to help us clean up.”
She headed toward Physical Facilities, anger surging through her, bringing tears to her eyes which she dashed away impatiently. There was no way she could prove who’d done it. She could get Zara to post more guards at the little door at the end of the hall, her shortcut out of the palace that didn’t require her to go by the east wing, but that wouldn’t help. They weren’t coming back because they’d made their point: resign, or the Library suffers. Zara would believe her, but what could she do? She had her own problems. She blinked away more tears. Now the bastards had made her cry. She must look awful. Everyone she passed stared at her.
She realized that in her reverie she’d taken a wrong turn, cursed, and turned around, bumping into someone. “Sorry,” she said, and the other person said, “Alison, what’s wrong?”
She hadn’t heard him say her name in so long it startled his out of her. “Anthony,” she said.
Anthony said, “I’ve been trying to get your attention since you passed me in the hall back there. What happened?”
She scrubbed at her eyes again. “The scriptorium was vandalized,” she said. “I need to get it cleaned up before the scribes get here.”
He took her arm and drew her to one side, then released her all in one motion so swift she barely felt the touch of h
is hand. “The Scholia?”
He was quick. She nodded. “They left the books and the desks alone. No common vandal would have done that. It’s a huge mess. There’s ink everywhere. I need to get people from Physical Facilities to help clean it up.” She moved as if to pass him, and he stepped into her path.
“Domestics is what you need,” he said. “I’ll get your labor. Go back to the Library and salvage what you can.”
“Thank you,” she said, and he smiled, and for a moment she saw the man she remembered, and smiled back at him. His smile vanished, leaving him completely expressionless. She blushed and had no idea why. “Thank you,” she said again, and turned and ran back to the Library, feeling as if she were being chased by something she couldn’t identify.
The apprentices had arrived while she was gone. Henry and Declan were moving books to whatever clean spots they could find, clearing the floor. Gwendolen and Trevers were busy picking up cards from the floor, discarding those too ink-soaked to be used. “They opened all the boxes, milady,” said Gwendolen, who’d been crying her own tears of rage. “And all the ink jugs. And all the pens are broken.”
Alison leaned face-first against the wall and quickly stepped back. A smear of ink made a wide streak against her forearm. She cursed again, more eloquently, causing the apprentices to gasp and then giggle and Henry to say, “Don’t corrupt the children, dear.”
“They ought to learn these words while they’re young or they won’t know what to say when Scholia vandals break into their libraries.”
A double handful of men and women entered, bringing buckets of water, mops, scrub brushes, brooms, and towels. They were followed by Anthony, who surveyed the room and said, “I didn’t realize what you meant by ‘huge mess’. Should I tell Zara?”
Servant of the Crown (The Crown of Tremontane Book 1) Page 27