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“Intelligent?” André asked with a laugh. He was already Head of the Department of Sciences at the Académie; well-liked and highly respected. “Gaspard will be good fun, Mother. He tempers Devin’s bookishness.”
“I don’t understand your motivation, Devin,” Ethan said, stalking to the table to refill his wine glass. “You’re a trained historian, why would you want to spend your Third Year gathering Chronicles in the provinces?”
Ethan, a Colonel in Llisé’s army, was most like their father, though he lacked Vincent Roché’s humor. Devin suspected that he, too, might be Chancellor one day.
Devin extended a glass to his brother to fill. “The current process of preserving the Chronicles seems so fragile,” he explained. “Did you hear the Master Bard, who held the Perouse Chronicle, died suddenly last month? He didn’t have time to pass on even half of the information to his apprentice. Those stories are lost forever.”
“Well, you can’t write them down,” Jean told him. “Canon Law forbids it.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Devin answered. “They can’t be recorded as historical data.”
“You can’t record them in any manner,” Ethan clarified, his index finger stabbing Devin’s chest. “Your degree lends credibility to anything you write. I wouldn’t want to see you brought up on charges over this. It could ruin your chances of ever working in the Archives again.”
“I know that,” Devin assured him. “I only plan to memorize them.”
Jacques, an under-secretary in their father’s cabinet, hoisted himself from a chair by the fireplace. “Only?” he said with a chuckle. “Devin, no one has ever memorized the Chronicles from all the provinces – no one – in over a thousand years.”
Devin, his defenses beginning to crack, took a gulp of wine before answering. “Perhaps, no one has ever tried.”
“Give him a chance,” his father said from the doorway. “Devin memorized the first volume of Bardic Songs before he was six.”
“But the Chronicles are of little importance, darling,” his mother protested to her husband. “The work Devin will be doing here, in the capital, is so much more valuable. Surely, the Chronicle of Perouse is only of value to the people who live there.”
Devin sighed. He’d fought this battle before and he wasn’t about to repeat the arguments over and over again. The Chronicles were not officially sanctioned history but they recounted the important events in each province. They deserved a better means of preservation than to be passed down orally from one generation to the next. He patted his mother’s shoulder, knowing she would never understand. “I intend to go, Mother. Tonight’s my last night here. Let’s not argue.”
“Let’s not,” his father said, “Besides, I’ve brought you a present.”
Money, Devin thought, even though his Third Year stipend would be more than sufficient in the remote areas he intended to travel to. His father would think it necessary that he carry half the treasury along, just in case. “That’s not necessary,” he protested.
“Ah, but it is,” his father continued, “and I must exact your promise that you will take my gift with you.”
Devin bowed his head, acquiescing, knowing the futility of attempting to argue with the most powerful man in the empire. “Thank you,” Devin murmured. “I’ll take it, if you insist.”
“I do,” his father replied. “Stand just there, if you don’t mind, while I make the presentation.” Something about the curve of his mouth told Devin he’d been conned.
His father motioned to someone in the hall and then Marcus, his father’s bodyguard of some years, loomed into sight. Devin waited expectantly, anticipating some sort of package or little ritual, until the chuckles began behind him.
“You’re not serious!” he cried, when the full realization hit him.
“Oh, I’m quite serious,” his father replied, putting an affectionate arm around him. “Marcus will accompany you for the full fifteen months that you’re gone, or until you’re safely home.”
Devin ducked out of his embrace, furious. “I won’t take him! I’m not going to travel the empire with the Chancellor Elite’s bodyguard trailing behind me!”
“Then you won’t leave the city,” his father said quietly. “I’ve been sympathetic to your wishes so far, Devin. I even think I understand your motivation but I won’t allow my gentle, scholarly son to travel the provinces with no protection but his scatter-wit friend.”
“Gaspard’s not a scatter-wit!” Devin protested. “And I’m going to be memorizing stories, for God’s sake! Who would want to harm me?”
“Your naiveté astounds me,” Ethan murmured, finishing his wine in one gulp, and reaching for the decanter.
“My empire is certainly not immune to cutthroats and thieves,” his father said tightly.
“And if we’re traveling students, no one will think we have anything worth stealing! A bodyguard implies wealth and valuables. You might as well put a sign around my neck, proclaiming that I’m your son!”
“Believe me, I considered it,” his father replied. “Marcus isn’t negotiable, Devin. Should he come back alone, because you’ve ditched him in some backwater, I’ll issue a warrant for your arrest in all fifteen Provinces. I’ll have you brought back in irons if necessary.”
“Vincent, please!” his mother protested.
Anger had momentarily hardened his father’s face. He had not, after all, reached his elevated position by compromise, nor was he about to negotiate on this issue.
“That’s my final word on it, Devin.”
“Well, you’ve ruined dinner!” his mother said. “How do you expect Devin to eat after all this? And who knows what kind of meals he’ll get for the next year!”
“People eat in the provinces too, Mother,” Devin replied.
“Then we’ll call it settled,” his father said, taking his wife’s hand and pulling her to her feet. “Let’s sit down to dinner and forget this unpleasantness.”
Mathieu, an attaché in the diplomatic service, passed Devin without speaking, but landed one hand sympathetically on his younger brother’s shoulder.
Devin jockeyed for a position next to his father as they left the room and walked down the hall toward the dining room.
“Marcus will jeopardize my work, Father,” he pleaded. “People are suspicious of the government in the provinces. A man in uniform will make them think I’m conducting some kind of investigation. They won’t speak as freely.”
“I have no problem with Marcus wearing casual clothing,” his father said. “That should solve the problem.”
“But he still looks and acts like a soldier,” Devin complained. “It’s in his nature, he can’t help it.”
Marcus towered over him, a massive wall of toned muscle. Weapons strained the seams of his uniform.
His father stopped dead, tucking his wife’s hand into the crook of his oldest son’s arm.
“Jean, take your mother to the table, please. I’ll only be a moment.” He smiled cordially, as the rest of his family passed them by.
Devin cringed when his father placed both hands on his shoulders and pushed him back against the wall. For a moment, he felt as though he were seven again, facing a spanking for breaking his mother’s favorite vase. He stood quietly in his father’s grip. He was a man now, and he’d done nothing wrong.
“I want no further discussion on this matter,” his father said, his voice held well below the level which might be overheard further down the corridor. “Either you accept my offer of a bodyguard or you do not go at all.”
“I’m just asking you to see this from my point of view.” Devin begged.
“And I’m asking you to see it from mine,” his father retorted. “This quest of yours has ruffled some feathers. Your intentions have been misunderstood. Four council members took me aside last night. They fear you are trying to elevate the Chronicles to the same level as the documents in the Archives. There’s some resentment. You are Académie educated, and besides, you are my son. That lends an official tone to your trip whether you intended it or not.”
“It has nothing to do with you,” Devin protested.
“It has everything to do with me,” his father continued. “If Marcus goes with you, it extends my sanction to your undertaking. You can’t be censored if I have given you my approval.”
“Surely, your approval could come without attaching Marcus to it,” Devin grumbled.
“It’s a fine line, son, perhaps you can’t see it. Marcus’s inclusion implies you will be reporting to me.”
Devin felt the first shadow of misgiving. “And will I be?”
His father avoided his eyes. “I think it would be best, Dev. This isn’t a pleasure trip, and you know it.”
“But I’m not going as your representative,” he objected. “This trip was my idea from the first.”
“And after you gather the Chronicles, what do you intend to do with them? These stories require retelling to keep them fresh in your memory. You cannot set yourself up as a bard, not in your position.”
Devin winced at the disapproval in his tone. His prejudice was evident. “I simply want to see them preserved,” he answered. “Can’t you see that oral records have value just as written ones do?”
His father lowered his voice as a servant passed, a tray of canapés in hand. “The law states that oral records have no validity, Devin. You are in no position to question or change it.”
“But you are,” Devin pointed out.
His father shook his head. “Oddly enough, at the moment, I am not, and I ask you to leave it at that. It is my job to uphold the law, and yours to obey it. Even in my position, I cannot save you if you choose to disregard it.”
Devin sighed. “I know.”
His father laid a hand on his arm. “Have you considered that, by learning the Chronicles and not passing them on, you will only preserve them for your lifetime? How will that help the situation?”
Devin’s eyes sought the floor. “Gaspard’s thinking of becoming a folklorist.”
His father’s astonishment was obvious. “That’s not an Académie-level position! As a folklorist, he’ll be barred from the Archives for life. Is he out of his mind?”
Devin sighed. “He can’t keep up with his studies. He barely scraped by last term, even with my help. He doesn’t expect to pass his exams.”
His father shook his head. “What a disappointment for his father. I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
“I hope this trip will give him another focus.”
His father grunted as the connection became apparent. “I guess I understand this better now. You’re planning to pass the songs and ballads on to him and he’ll record them. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because none of you credit Gaspard with having a brain in his head,” Devin replied.
“Devin, the music is one thing, if that’s truly what you have in mind. There are already a few existing pamphlets of provincial songs. But you mustn’t ever ask Gaspard to compile any of the Chronicles in written form,” his father said. “They’ve hanged men for less. Be very, very careful what you are doing here. This is dangerous.”
Devin clenched his hands. “I would never put Gaspard’s life in danger,” he protested.
“God,” his father murmured, “I’m thinking of your own life, Devin.” His face softened. “I know how obsessed you can become with a project. From the time you were a child you have been fascinated by the bards’ brown cloaks. Where would you wear one, Dev? They’re barred from the Archives!”
“Why would you care what I do with the cloak?” Devin protested. “If I earn an embroidered symbol for all fifteen provinces, I’ll be the first man to have a complete set!”
“It’s a formidable task, son,” his father said quietly. “Don’t set yourself up for defeat.”
“Can’t you understand?” Devin pleaded. “The cloak represents an accomplishment; something no one else has ever done! It would be no different than the trophies you still display from your Académie days!”
His father’s face sobered. “Perhaps, you’re right. But my trophies didn’t put me in any physical danger.”
“So, broken bones don’t count, then?” Devin asked. His father still walked with a slight limp from a leg that had been broken during a polo match.
“Touché,” his father replied, stepping back. The distance between them indicated that he’d allowed Devin to score a point, but he considered the argument had already been won. “Look here, I’m sure dinner is getting cold and your mother is fretting. Let’s finish this, son, and agree not to discuss it again. Either you abide by my wishes or the trip is canceled. Which will it be?”
“You know which,” Devin replied sulkily. He’d planned too long to allow this dream to end on the night of its inception.
“Good,” his father said, relief evident in his voice. “You’ve made the right decision. As of tomorrow morning, you’ll be included on the Council’s payroll, under my direct authority. I’ll expect a full report from each province – I’m not interested in the number of tales you’ve gathered, of course – but your reflections on them, and observations of the provinces themselves. Marcus will arrange to have them delivered to me. Besides, your mother will want to know where you are and how you are faring. And as always, my resources are available if you need them, Devin, wherever you are. You have only to ask.”
“I know that,” Devin replied, allowing his father to direct him toward the dining room.
“And, don’t be concerned that Marcus will interfere with your plans. I assure you, he will be very discreet. You and Gaspard can feel free to enjoy yourselves. That’s what the Third Year has always been about.”
Not my Third Year, Devin thought miserably, I’ll be tracked, followed, and reported on, make no mistake about it.
His father detained him, a hand still on his arm. “And Devin, I appreciate your being reasonable after receiving my message. I expected you to overreact and yet, when I walked in tonight, I found you calmly stating your case to your brothers. It shows maturity.” He smiled. “And courage, too. I’m proud of you and glad we’ve worked this out.”
Devin’s hand dropped automatically to the message in his pocket. He’d never even read it. “Thank you,” he murmured, inclining his head. He stood for a moment, uncertain what to do. “Could you excuse me, please? I’d like to wash my hands before dinner.”
“Of course,” his father replied.
He walked quickly down the hall to the gentlemen’s lavatory. Wall sconces lighted the huge room designed to handle the needs of the Chancellor’s constant entertaining. A bank of porcelain sinks, their brass taps gleaming, covered one wall. He’d come so very close to revealing his entire plan tonight and then he would never have been permitted to leave. Devin retrieved his father’s message and broke the seal, spreading it out on the sink in front of him. The note was brief and to the point:
Devin,
Under no circumstances are you to leave the city without speaking to me first. There is strong opposition to your trip and I think it would be wise to cancel it. I hate to disappoint you but you’ll have to trust my judgment in this. Come to the house after exams, we’ll discuss it then.
Affectionately,
Your Father
He read the message twice. Had his father truly intended to call off his trip? And if so, at what point had he reconsidered? Obviously, the decision had been made before Devin arrived: he’d had Marcus waiting in the hall. He stood a moment wondering whether to admit he hadn’t read the message before he came, and decided against it. His hands shaking, he folded the parchment and jammed it back into his pocket. After one quick look in the mirror, he walked back down the hall to the dining room.
CHAPTER 2 (#ucebfb63d-3bdd-5ce5-bbf4-4b5902ae3025)
Leaving Viénne (#ucebfb63d-3bdd-5ce5-bbf4-4b5902ae3025)
Devin turned down his father’s offer of a carriage to take him back to the dormitory. The cool moonlit walk offered a quiet end to a hectic day. He strolled beneath the budding trees, marking his progress by the luminous pools the gas lights left on the sidewalk. The Académie buildings looked formidable against the dark sky. Only the Archive’s windows were still illuminated as first year apprentices labored to shelve the massive quantity of materials which had been used to study for final exams. The examination hall had closed at ten and it was now well past midnight.
The dormitory lobby reeked of pipe tobacco, its table and chairs littered with crumpled study notes, crumbs, and empty glasses. Devin mounted the stairs without seeing another student. An eerie quiet marked the darkened halls. Some students had already departed for the three month summer holiday. Others were celebrating or drowning their sorrows down at Antoine’s. Final exams sparked either high spirits or despair. The essays were excruciatingly specific with little room for fabrication. Rarely did a student leave the Examination Hall without knowing for certain he had secured a place in next year’s class, or that he would have to return home in disgrace.
Gaspard was not in his room. None of his clothes had been packed and his bed remained rumpled and unmade. Devin packed the contents of his own closet in the large trunk at the foot of his bed, reserving only a few items to put into his knapsack. He intended to take only what he could conveniently carry. He folded his itinerary and placed it flat on the bottom, and then a few shirts and trousers, a warm jacket and blanket, thick socks, and a pocket knife. Only because his father required him to make reports did he include paper and ink. Either item might be misconstrued by the Council members who disapproved of his journey. Whatever else he needed could be purchased along the way. The larger job was to strip the room of his belongings. Next year he would be assigned an apartment in the Archives. He would never return to this dormitory again.
It was after three when he finished marking the boxes of books and the trunk with instructions to be taken to his parents’ house. There was still no sign of Gaspard, and their ship sailed at five. He threw his roommate’s clothes into another knapsack and started to pack his other belongings.
He was so tired; even the thin, bare, mattress tempted him. The past two weeks he’d had little sleep, spending half the night studying for his own exams and the other half tutoring Gaspard. He gave into temptation, slumping down on the bed and closing his eyes.
A moment later, he heard running feet on the stairs.
“Devin?” Henri Ferrare, a first year student, hung on the doorframe, his breath coming in gasps. “It’s Gaspard. Can you come?”
Devin dragged himself up off the bed. “What’s the matter? Is he hurt?”
