Songs of the Earth (37 page)

‘Have you found what you require, my lord?’

‘The search continues, alas. This section of the archives seems to be somewhat disorganised.’

The keeper’s pale lips twitched. ‘We have many books, my lord. More than three hundred thousand volumes. Recataloguing such a collection … takes time.’

‘Indeed. How many are there in this room, in your opinion?’

Turning his head, the keeper surveyed the ranks of wooden shelves that stood like infantry battalions awaiting inspection, ranging out into the darkness past the golden circle of lamplight that surrounded the sole reading table. His expression did not change. ‘I could not say.’

‘If they were catalogued, I’m sure you could have told me the precise number, down to the last loose folio.’

‘Quite so, my lord.’ Dark orbs returned from their contemplation of the unseen far wall and focused on the book between Ansel’s hands. ‘Something of interest, Preceptor?’

Ansel added the book to the stack. ‘No, just another herbal, I’m afraid. Syfrian marsh plants and the remedies obtainable there-from. Did you know, Vorgis, that you can prepare no fewer than seven different tinctures from the spotted frogbit?’

‘Is that so? How fascinating.’

‘Indeed. Ah well, onwards we march. Those journals must be here somewhere.’

‘Journals, my lord?’

‘Yes, journals,’ Ansel said. ‘Some of my predecessors were ardent diarists, and reading their journals would give a very personal perspective on the Order’s history. So much more human than Brother Chronicler’s dry script, don’t you think?’

‘Perhaps so – although I prefer history to confine itself to facts, rather than opinion.’

‘If I were looking for history, my dear keeper, I would be out in the main library, where there are windows and an approximation of fresh air. What I am searching for here are the men behind the history, because it was these men who made the Order what it was, and what it has become.’

The keeper’s eyes glittered. ‘And you think you will find those journals here, my lord?’

‘They’re certainly not out there.’ Ansel jerked his head towards the door behind him. ‘According to your most thorough catalogue, that is. Unless they were mis-shelved.’

‘Mis-shelved?’ Vorgis’ near-invisible eyebrows rose. ‘I can assure you, there are no mis-shelved books in the Suvaeon archive. Not one.’

‘You can be sure of that, keeper? Out of three hundred thousand volumes?’

‘Absolutely sure. This is a
library
, my lord, not a common lending-house.’ One pale hand touched the keys as if to be reassured that they were still there. ‘And now the archives are closed. I shall see to it that these books are returned to their proper place.’

‘Oh, I’m not quite done yet, Vorgis. I think I need another half an hour, if you don’t mind.’

‘I’m afraid that’s quite impossible. The archives are closed.’

‘I need another half an hour.’

The keeper’s lips pursed. ‘My lord Preceptor, when you came to me three weeks ago and … demanded access to the archives, I felt you were pursuing a fool’s errand. Surely after all this time, if you have not found anything, it means that there is nothing here to find?’

‘That’s certainly possible.’

‘Quite so.’ Vorgis folded his hands together again at his waist. ‘Shall I escort you to the door?’

‘No, thank you, Vorgis. I’m not done.’

‘I will be locking the archive very shortly. You are welcome to stay until the morning, but I do not think that would be advisable given your … condition.’

The man was quite intolerable. ‘Threats, Vorgis? From you? I am surprised.’

‘I made no threat, my lord.’

‘Good, because if you had, I might have been forced to knock you onto your bony arse!’

The keeper blinked. ‘My lord?’

Leaning on his staff, Ansel heaved himself to his feet, ignoring the fiery needles that stabbed his joints. He dug in the pocket of his
house robe and produced a shiny brass key, which he held up between finger and thumb.

‘The archives close when I say, master keeper, and not before. You would do well to remember that.’

‘But there is only one key—’ Vorgis’ hand twitched towards his girdle, then pointed accusingly at Ansel. ‘You had it copied!’

‘As is my right and prerogative as the principal of the Suvaeon Order.’

‘How? The key never left the room.’

Ansel showed his teeth. It was most satisfying to see Vorgis nonplussed. ‘Candles,’ he said. ‘Good white candles, that give such a fine light for reading. The spilth will hold an excellent impression of a key.’

Vorgis blinked again. ‘I am the keeper of the archives!’

‘And you should remember who appointed you so!’ Ansel roared, then had to bring his voice back to a gentler pitch when the steel bands tightened across his chest. ‘I have work to do here, master keeper, and you can help me or hinder me. The choice is yours.’

‘My lord, I must protest. These books are extremely precious—’

‘Then you should take better care of them! The dust in here could choke a coal-pit mule.’

‘—extremely precious and I cannot allow these archives to be opened at will!’

‘
You?
’ Ansel leaned forward on the table. ‘
You
cannot allow it, Vorgis?
I
am Preceptor.’ He thumped the iron heel of the staff onto the flagstones underfoot and it rang like the Sacristy bell. ‘If I wish to open the archives, I will open them. If I want to read every last book and scroll and tattered endpaper in the entire Index, then
I will read them
. Do I make myself clear?’

He had not intended to shout, but it had had the desired effect. For the first time, Ansel saw the keeper of the archives lost for words. Vorgis’ eyes were fixed on the golden Oak, hypnotised by the way it swung gently back and forth on its chain.

‘Vorgis! Do I make myself clear?’

Ansel’s voice snapped the keeper out of his reverie. He blinked again and smoothed one pale hand over his scalp. ‘Abundantly so, Preceptor.’ The ghost of what might once have been a smile tightened the corners of his mouth then was gone. ‘Good evening to you.’

With a stiff bow, the keeper stalked out. At once, Ansel reached for the handbell again. Damn the dust in this room! His chest was now dreadfully tight and a tickle at the back of his throat signalled an imminent bout of coughing. He didn’t dare let it begin without a glass of water to hand or it might never end. He should have kept a tighter rein on his temper, not let himself be goaded into shouting. Damn Vorgis, and damn all the secrets the Order kept, even from itself.

‘Alquist? Alquist!’ The skinny librarian reappeared at his elbow. ‘Oh, there you are, my lad. Would you fetch some water? There’s too much dust—’

The tickle intensified. Ansel fumbled for his handkerchief as the cough began to hack its way out of his lungs. Pain sawed through him with each heave of his chest and he wheezed like leaky bellows as he tried to catch his breath.

Alquist stared, horrified.

Ansel waved him away and slumped back into his chair as cough after cough sent coloured lights wheeling across his sight.

By the time Alquist crept back into the room with a pitcher and cup, the worst was over and the spotted handkerchief was once more tucked out of sight. Ansel accepted a cup of water gratefully and sat sipping at it until his rasping breaths eased.

The young librarian hovered by the table. ‘Are you unwell, my lord?’ he asked.

‘No, lad,’ said Ansel, mustering a smile, ‘just too old and tired for all the dust in here.’

The boy fingered the cover of the witch-trial transcripts and
wiped his hand on his robe. ‘It doesn’t seem right to me,’ he muttered. ‘Why aren’t they better taken care of?’

‘No one cares about these books, Alquist. They’re here because we’re too ashamed to make them public, and too afraid to destroy them.’

Alquist’s face froze. ‘Destroy them?’ he repeated. ‘They’re
books
! Books shouldn’t be destroyed.’

Ansel gave him a creaky laugh. ‘Be grateful you weren’t alive to see the Inquisition at its height. The Church burned books by the thousand.’

‘But that’s not right!’

‘Ah, my son, you have the soul of a true librarian. To you, all knowledge is precious, even the profane. I’ve a mind to promote you to keeper of the archives if I live long enough.’

‘But Master Vorgis is keeper of the archives.’

‘The keeper of secrets, perhaps,’ Ansel snorted.

‘My lord?’

‘Just an old man’s ramblings, lad. Don’t pay them any mind.’ Setting down his cup, Ansel picked up Malthus’ journal again. A bead of scarlet winked at him from the cover and he dabbed it away with his fingertip. There was enough blood on those pages already, he suspected, albeit the kind that did not leave a stain for everyone to see. He rubbed his fingertip with his thumb, watching the smear of scarlet become a smudge, then nothing at all. After Samarak, there had been so much blood and filth blackening his fingernails that it had taken a week to scrub it away. It had been a lot longer than a week before he had felt that they were clean.

‘Do you know your history, my son? Can you tell me who was Preceptor of our Order at the end of the Founding Wars?’

‘Preceptor Malthus,’ said Alquist promptly. ‘He led our army to victory at Riannen Cut.’

‘Indeed he did, well done.’
Well done for parroting what they taught you in the novitiate, at any rate
. ‘Alquist, the night is wearing on and you must be tired. I have just one more task for you, if you
would be so kind. Do you see this book? Are there any others like this, in the same hand?’

‘I’m not certain, my lord. I think there might be, on the next shelf.’

‘Can you bring them to me, please? Then you can go to bed.’

‘I’ll be as quick as I can, my lord.’

‘Oh, there’s no rush. Take your time. I’ve plenty to read here.’

Autumn stormed down from the north in huff and bluster. Gales battered Penglas, rattling Chapterhouse’s window casements and shrieking round the chimneys. Gair hadn’t flown in three days and already felt confined by the walls. The wind drove Aysha as mad as a caged bear.

He looked down at the teacup in his hands. Fine Isles porcelain, delicate, translucent stuff the colour of sea-foam, far more fragile than the stout pottery mugs he was accustomed to in the refectory. More was the pity; if it had been one of them its mate wouldn’t now be in shards on the hearth where Aysha had flung it a few moments earlier.

She sprawled on the couch opposite, feet up, boot-heels digging carelessly into the ivory damask as she chewed at a hangnail. This wasn’t the first time the weather had kept them indoors. They had passed those other times in conversation or debate, but now the north winds scraped across her nerves like a rasp. It was proving hard on her crockery.

‘Would you like some more tea?’ he ventured.

She scowled at him. ‘No.’

Her moods always worsened with the weather. She grew irritable, restive as a horse stabled too long, and Gair knew no way to
soothe her. At the Motherhouse there had been a covered yard with a deep peat floor where the horses could be exercised when going outside was impractical, and all but the most surly animal had responded well to a thorough brushing and a sweet warm mash afterwards. Somehow he didn’t think a basin of bran was going to help here.

Kneeling at the hearth, he refilled his cup from the teapot keeping warm by the fire and sat back down on his couch. The first sip told him the tea was stewed, but in order to reach the little cupboard above Aysha’s desk where the honey-crock was kept, he would have to pass her seat, and she had blistered his ears once already for making too much bloody noise on the wooden floor with his damned boots. He resigned himself to a tongue-curlingly bitter drink and not for the first time wondered why he didn’t just leave her to her sulks.

He knew why, of course, though it had taken that day on the mountain to make him finally acknowledge it. There was a reason for that little leap inside whenever her regard lit on him, an explanation for why he found such grace in her smallest gesture, and could scarcely concentrate on what she was saying for watching her hands as they talked.