“Like the king and queen?”
“Yes. Eventually. But before I worry and upset them with news about their dead son, I would like to know a bit more about the book, and take time to review the rest of his library.”
Aengas stretched his arms. His large wooden chair, which his servants had erected in a spare bedchamber with all the ceremony of builders raising a miniature cathedral, took up a great deal of room, and although it could be wheeled from place to place, it took two men to do so—three if Aengas was in it. This made for many complications, but Tiamak did not mind them because there were few scholars in all of Osten Ard who knew more about forbidden and ancient books than the former viscount. “In any case,” Aengas went on, “all this about the book was not the question I was trying to ask you, dear fellow. I wanted to know whether you had intentionally given poor Brother Etan into the hands of Hyrka thieves.”
“Oh, that.” Tiamak made a sour face. “I am not pleased to hear about Madi’s family, nor do I doubt I will be dunned for the miserable night’s lodging he gave Brother Etan. Despite what Etan has seen, though, I think Madi is a good man. I have known him for years, ever since my first journey back to Kwanitupul. He is a bit of a rascal, and clearly not the best father, but I swear his heart is good. I have known him a long time.”
Aengas rearranged the Treatise atop the large board that lay on his armrests as a makeshift table. “And you are certain there is no one else you wish to bring into our discussion, like Lord Pasevalles?”
“I am fairly certain, yes. Lord Chancellor Pasevalles is a good man—a very clever man, too—but I think that the fewer folk who know we have this book, the smaller the chance of it slipping out by mischance. Beside, Pasevalles is a devout Aedonite. I do not wish to demand his secrecy and pit his faith against our friendship.”
“But your own faith does not trouble you about it?”
Tiamak smiled. “My faith, old friend, applies only to Wrannamen and is all but mute on the subject of drylanders, let alone the Sithi. He Who Always Steps On Sand enjoins us to seek boldly but not to abandon caution entirely. I think that makes for a reasonable approach. Why do you ask?”
“Just curious. The book, what little of it I have managed to translate, is full of ideas both inspiring and terrifying.”
“Lucky for you that you have no faith to be outraged.”
“Oh, I have faith,” Aengas said. “Would you hand me my cup? Bless you. I have faith that mortal Man cannot be trusted with gold or with power over other men. I have faith that learning will always frighten stupidity, and that stupidity will often strike back, sometimes murderously.” He took the cup from Tiamak. Because he could not easily lift it to his lips, he sipped instead from the hollow reed, drawing watered wine to his mouth. “Now, shall we continue?”
Tiamak smiled again. “You renew my own faith that some things truly are eternal, Aengas. You are as cynical as ever you were.”
“More so. My cynicism grows like a weed. Someday it will choke all the weaker flowers like charity and hope that live in my garden.” He cleared his throat. “Now be quiet if you wish me to read this to you.
“Beside these great scrying-stones, which the elders only may use, there are other charms and tokens that can carry such whispers through the aetheric fluids and across great distances. It is said that some of the adepts can speak not just over earthly spans, but across the boundary or veil between the world of living and the cloudy halls of death.”
“God give you good day, Your Majesty.”
Simon looked up. “Ah, Lord Pasevalles. Good to see you.”
“And you, Majesty. May I trouble you for your royal hand and seal on these?”
The king shuffled through the curling rolls of vellum. “What am I signing my name to?”
Pasevalles smiled. “A dozen different things, all of them rather boring, as you may see if you examine them—confirmations of land titles, a report from the royal mint, three petitions begging you for tax relief. And of course the letter from our ambassador at the Sancellan Mahistrevis about the visit of Lector Vidian’s legate. I showed you that already.”
The king frowned. “S’Bloody Tree! Ah, forgive me, Pasevalles, I forget myself when I’m vexed, and this matter is vexing me fiercely. Why must I sign something for our own ambassador? The damnable legate is on his way whether I want it or not.”
“I took the liberty of writing a reply for you to Count Froye, thanking him for his letter. These are the things I must do with Count Eolair gone from the castle.”
Simon thought he heard a note of self-pity. “And you do them very well, man. I realize we ask a great deal of you, between the Chancelry and all else that has fallen to you with the Hand of the Throne gone off with the prince. Don’t think the queen and I will forget this service.”
Pasevalles looked down. “You are kind, as always, my king, especially to one as unworthy as myself. I have already been given a gift by you and the queen greater than any I could have hoped to receive otherwise, just by the bestowal of your trust.”
“Good God, man, you talk like all the other courtiers around here. Don’t start complimenting me too much, or I won’t trust you anymore. It’s your honesty I crave. No king—or queen, for that matter—can live without honesty from at least one person they trust.”
“I hear your rebuke, Sire.” He smiled. “I will strive to tell you more unpleasant truths.”
Simon laughed. “That was good! More unpleasant truths.”
“But you are surely fortunate, Sire, that you have a queen who is both honest and extremely wise. And I do not say that to flatter.”
“No, you’re right. The problem with my Miri is that when she’s angry at me, I don’t want to listen to her good advice because it makes me feel like a fool.”
“You have my sympathy, Majesty.”
“And you have never married yourself, Pasevalles. Can you find no one who appeals? From what I hear, there are many ladies here in the court who have set their caps for you.”
“I am married to my work, Your Majesty. It leaves me little time for things like a family.”
“But what of the future? What of your name?”
By now his smile had vanished. “My family name, I am afraid, likely died with my uncle, the baron. Perhaps someday when my labors are over—or at least have become less all-consuming—I will think about changing that.”
“There’s no shame to waiting,” Simon said hurriedly. “Don’t get me wrong. Dear old Tiamak is older than I am, and he married only a few years ago. He’s as happy as can be.”
“Lady Thelía is a fine woman.”
“She is, she is.” But Simon was a bit confused now. Had he offended his lord chancellor? He hadn’t meant to. Perhaps Pasevalles was one of those men who didn’t like women. Simon had always found the idea strange himself, but it seemed too commonplace to be merely sin. God had made all kinds of people upon His Earth, from Simon’s old harper Sangfugol, who even in his old age had still had an eye for attractive young men as well as women, to those like Archbishop Gervis, whom Simon had once seen walk past a drunk, half-naked woman without even noticing her as she lay singing on her back in Market Square.
Despite his own marriage and his still powerful desire for his wife, the dark secrets of the bedchamber often confused Simon. If God had meant the act to be only between married men and women, why did He fill the world with so many temptations? Why did He make the desire so strong and the act so pleasurable . . . ?
“I am sorry, Majesty, I have distracted you from your thoughts,” Pasevalles said. “Please just fix your seal on these last few and I will leave you in peace.”
“No, I was woolgathering,” Simon said, dripping wax on the last document. “But this talk of ours has put me in mind of another thing I would discuss with you. This visit from the legate.”
“I have made the arrangements, Sire. The only question remaining is whether he should stay here in the Hayholt or at St. Sutrin’s, which is the usual place for important religious visitors.”
“I feel no strong urge to put him up in the castle,” Simon said. “But it is not the arrangements I want to discuss, it’s the thing itself.”
“Sire?”
“The thing itself. The wedding of the duke’s brother Drusis. You have heard that the Lector is requesting the queen and myself attend, and then use the opportunity to force the two arguing sides to make peace. You are from Nabban and you know the southern mind better than I do. What do you think?”
Pasevalles stood, his arms now full of vellum rolls with dangling seals. “Well, Majesty,” he began.
“Oh, sit down, man, before you drop everything,” Simon said, pointing to a bench. “I want your thoughts.”