Daughter of Mystery (34 page)

Barbara tensed at the mention of her name.
This won’t go well.
She pretended not to notice the stillness that fell and the sharp glances in her direction. Choriaz broke the silence, drawing off his spectacles to glare angrily. “It’s bad enough we put up with the hired swords hanging around, but I don’t care to have one school me in languages. Perhaps we could confine ourselves to the opinions of guild members?”

After that, Barbara let Marken be the one to stand idle in the hostel common room while the guild argued and experimented. When they came up with anything interesting, Margerit would let her know.

And she had a new occupation for her spare hours. Each church kept a register of the baptisms and marriages and deaths it presided over. The date of her birth was one thing she knew for certain. And though her baptism might have fallen even months later, that gave a starting point for the search. Her given name, the baron as godfather—it should be enough to find the record. And that record would contain two more names at least: those of her parents.

The registers were open for anyone to view who came at reasonable hours. Deciphering them was another matter as each clerk had his own hand and often his own shorthand, though the structure of the entries was fixed. Only the names needed to be puzzled out. She began at Saint Mauriz’s. It was the obvious choice for a noble family. To balance that, the volume of material to work through was vast. The sessions became part of her routine, alongside practice with Perret and reviewing Margerit’s engagements with Maisetra Pertinek and reading enough of the
Statuta Nova
to keep up with Chunirez’s lectures.

In her movements, she tried to avoid routine. That mistake had contributed to the disaster in December. Now she kept to no standard routes when she moved around the city. There was no way to avoid a predictable schedule—the university lectures were fixed. But she became far more familiar with all the back doors, hidden hallways and unexpected alleys. Margerit hadn’t questioned the need, once she had explained. Near the Port Ausiz, she happened by pure chance on one of the men she had wounded in the attack. From his shock and the speed with which he dodged around the corner she didn’t think he’d been following her. Perhaps her defense had put caution into them, for when she encountered him again in company, the two of them melted away as if Saint Mihail himself stood at her back with a sword.

She spotted another of them at a distance late one afternoon—the same man who had followed her to the warehouse the day she bought the Gaudericus.
And why not turn the tables?
she thought. She had no training in trailing a man unseen, but it was as if she carried some ophthalmic stone as a talisman shielding her from his notice. Barbara read his intent as she followed his movements along the road heading west toward the river. He was purposeful but not furtive, brisk but not rushed. He was clearly going somewhere to meet someone, but that gave no guarantee of useful information. He might have any number of employers or business of his own. But there had been something in the way he’d spoken of her creditor that sounded like more than casual employment. It was a chance.

At the river he crossed over rather than turning off to the old warehouse district where they’d clashed before. Bridges made for poor cover but the street was crowded and Barbara paused only slightly to give him space. After that she nearly lost the trail, for she’d assumed he would continue on toward the West Gate. Glancing up the cross streets by reflex, she saw him pushing his way through the crowd along the Nikuletrez, following the road by the river north toward the better part of town. Now that was odd. Perhaps he was taking a message to some unfortunate whose income no longer entirely supported the lifestyle of that district. That would make this entire exercise a waste.

The farther they continued in that direction the more he stood out among the passersby and the more she blended in. There was the Waldimen’s house on Plaiz Nof—she recognized it despite approaching from the opposite direction than usual. Off another street lived the Chazillens. It was a more than respectable district yet it must gall when they’d hoped to be living on the Vezenaf by now. She hadn’t seen or heard any sign of Estefen since…since they’d arrived in Rotenek, she realized. That too was odd. Had he retreated to his title-estate? He didn’t seem the sort to be content rusticating.

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 mysteries. 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.