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Marcus bowed his head, acquiescing. “Then feel free to tell him, monsieur. You’ve heard my advice on the matter.” He crossed the deck and disappeared down the stairway.
Devin watched him go. Marcus had made it clear that Devin was in charge but he felt out of his depth. He was facing issues he had never expected to deal with. And now, the missing itinerary seemed less important in light of their other problems. Had he and Gaspard come alone, would he have sacrificed this trip to persuade him to go home? Should he tell the Captain that his itinerary had been stolen or keep the information to himself? He lingered for one more look at the smoldering sunset and followed Marcus below deck.
CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_770e86bb-7cb5-5590-88d2-f62027a1dd34)
Rough Seas (#ulink_770e86bb-7cb5-5590-88d2-f62027a1dd34)
The dining room was far more elegant than Devin would have imagined for a ship the size of the Marie Lisette. Paneled in dark wood and trimmed in gleaming brass, the room could have seated forty. But only one table had been lit with burnished oil lamps and set for the inopportune number of thirteen.
“Ah,” Devin murmured, coming up behind Marcus and Gaspard, “which of us makes it unlucky thirteen?”
“You, I would think,” Gaspard commented mercilessly. “You arrived last and have kept everyone else waiting.”
The Captain turned to grace Devin with a smile. “At last, our honored guest has arrived. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present our Chancellor Elite’s youngest son, Devin Roché.”
Devin saw at once that he had dressed too informally. The rest of the company had donned evening attire for dinner. Only he, Marcus, and Gaspard stood clad in casual traveling clothes. Oh well, it couldn’t be helped. He gave a slight bow.
“Good evening. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please sit down.” The notoriety annoyed him but he tried not to let it show on his face.
The Captain ushered Devin to the chair on his right and seated Henri LeBeau next to him; Marcus and Gaspard were placed across from each other, further down the table. He quickly introduced the rest of the passengers. The merchant, Gustave Christophe, and his pretty daughter, Sophie, sat toward the end of the table. Across from them, Captain Torrance had put the other merchant, Frederic Putton, and his wife, Margot. Bertrand St. Clair, the soldier they suspected of ulterior motives, had been seated next to Marcus. Devin wondered if perhaps the Captain had done that intentionally. Thomas Reynard, a boy of about fourteen, sat alone at the end of the table. Dr. Lucien Rousseau and his daughter, Josette faced Devin and Henri, completing the company.
St. Clair slid his chair away from Marcus as he sat down. Perhaps, it was only a courtesy – giving Marcus the extra space his huge frame demanded – but Devin saw a momentary look of distaste cross the man’s face as well.
The Captain seized his soup spoon to sample the first offering.
“So tell us all the news from Coreé, monsieur,” he demanded of Devin. “What is troubling hearts in the capital this spring?”
“My friend Gaspard and I are students at the Académie,” Devin replied. “We haven’t had much time for political intrigue.”
“And what are you studying?” the Captain asked, taking a noisy slurp of his fish chowder.
“I’m a certified historian but I am training to work in the Archives,” Devin replied.
“Apparently, you don’t crave excitement, then,” the Captain said with a laugh. His gaze fell on Gaspard. “And you are René Forneaux’s son, are you not?”
Gaspard crooked an eyebrow. “Only if you catch him on the rare day that he will admit it.”
Sophie giggled and Gaspard rewarded her with a wink.
“You and your father are not on good terms?” Henri LeBeau asked.
Gaspard shook his head and downed a spoonful of chowder. “On the contrary, Monsieur LeBeau, we are on excellent terms, as long as we aren’t forced to spend any time together.”
St. Clair’s spoon hit his plate with a sharp report. “Your pardon,” he remarked hastily.
Devin cleared his throat. “Surely, dinner discussion shouldn’t center on such private matters. Mr. LeBeau, since you are a professor at the Académie, perhaps you could tell us about some of the courses you teach?”
The Captain laughed, elbowing Devin. “I see your father raised a diplomat, monsieur. Perhaps your talents will be wasted in the Archives.”
“Surely not,” LeBeau said. “Llisé is always in need of scrupulous historians to guard our written records. After all, our history defines us as a people. Wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Roche?”
“I would,” Devin said with a nod. “We cannot safeguard our future without venerating the past.”
“Well said,” Dr. Rousseau chimed in. “I wish more young people shared your sentiments.”
“I know you and Monsieur Forneaux plan to visit all fifteen provinces in the next year,” LeBeau began. “Of what value will such a trip be to an archivist, monsieur?”
Devin chose his words carefully before he spoke. “It is something I have always wanted to do. Coreé has its libraries; the history and literature of a thousand years. The provinces have their Chronicles. Each province, including Viénne, has a unique character, and yet together they form Llisé. How can I understand the whole without understanding the parts that comprise it?”
Dr. Rousseau nodded his head approvingly. “Perhaps our Captain is right. Your skills may be wasted in the Archives. We need more young men like you on the Council. My God, written language is still forbidden in the provinces. A man can only be educated if he is recommended by the village elders, and then he must find a sponsor to provide the financial backing to reach Coreé and attend a school. How many intelligent individuals are languishing in the provinces that might serve us better if they could read and write?”
“You verge on heresy,” LeBeau said coldly.
“And yet, we are all human beings, LeBeau,” Dr. Rousseau retorted. “Some of us were simply fortunate enough to be born into families where education is taken for granted, not regarded as a privilege for the chosen few.”
“My family has personally sponsored a number of bright young men from Tirolien,” LeBeau replied. “As I am certain Chancellor Roche’s family has done in Sorrento. Every family that holds estates in the provinces recognizes the responsibility to instruct those unique individuals who can tolerate the demands of education.”
“A child is a child whether he is born into poverty or privilege,” Devin said quietly. “Who are we to determine who can and will be educated?”
“The determination is made by the wisest men of the village. Who is a better judge of a boy’s worth than his own people?” LeBeau retorted.
“I am not familiar with the actual process,” Devin replied, dipping his spoon into his chowder. “How are potential candidates identified?”
Gustave Christophe raised his hand tentatively. “My own son will receive schooling so he can carry on my business. But a father may also recommend his son to the elders if he shows exceptional promise.”
“What if the child is an orphan?” Devin asked.
“The men of the village can speak for him,” Gustave replied. “There is such a boy in my own village. His parents died when he was ten years old. He sweeps my shop in exchange for room and board. He shows skill in numbers and counting. I spoke for him to the elders.”
“And is he attending school?” Devin asked.
“He has no sponsor, monsieur.”
“Where do you live in Tirolien?”
“Tarente, monsieur.”
“I plan to travel through there in July,” Devin told him. “I would like to meet this boy, if you will give me directions to your shop. Perhaps my father can sponsor him.”
“Thank you very much, monsieur,” Gustave replied, bowing.
Marcus shifted uncomfortably but Devin ignored him. This was exactly the kind of thing he intended to include in his report to his father. How many other bright young children lacked sponsors to pay for their schooling? It was a problem that needed to be addressed.
LeBeau fixed Devin with a grim stare. “I had heard that there is an ulterior motive for your trip.”
“And what is that?” Dr. Rousseau asked.
“It is rumored that Monsieur Roche intends to memorize the Chronicles in as many provinces as he can,” LeBeau said. “Is that true?”
Devin placed his spoon carefully on his soup plate. Conversation had stopped. All eyes were on him.
“That was my original intention,” he admitted.
A slight gasp escaped from the lower end of the table. Devin suspected St. Clair but didn’t risk confirming it by a glance.
“And your objective has since been amended?” LeBeau continued.
“Not entirely,” Devin replied, aware of Marcus’s guarded expression. “I do intend to memorize some of the Chronicles. I cannot and would not record them in any kind of written document. My position as a historian precludes that.”
“Then what is the point of your project?” LeBeau demanded.
“It is only for my own information,” Devin answered. “I would like to understand our realm better. I am only familiar with our written history. Surely the vast treasury of story and song that makes up the tradition of the provinces is of value, too?”
“Legally, it is of value only to those who live in the provinces,” LeBeau pointed out. “Anything of historical importance has been officially recorded in Coreé. The rest is merely hearsay. Why would a man of your education and training waste his time on such a task?”
Devin held a palm up. “Monsieur, I will admit I am at a loss as to why this concerns you.”
“You are the son of our Chancellor,” LeBeau remarked sternly. “Are the sentiments you have voiced his as well?”
God, Devin thought. He apparently had no diplomatic skills what so ever or he would never have allowed the conversation to have gotten this far.
Gaspard’s wine glass smacked down on the table. “Don’t be an ass, LeBeau! You have children of your own. Does every one of them share the exact same interests and opinions you do?”
“Of course not,” LeBeau stammered. “That’s hardly the point!”
Gaspard raised his wine glass and gestured. “I think it is, monsieur. My friend Devin is merely a scholar. Unlike his brothers he holds no position of authority in his father’s government. His influence on any current policy is as negligible as your own. Why do you care what he thinks or does?”
“His actions reflect badly on his father!” LeBeau protested. “He shows a disregard for authority!”
Dr. Rousseau interrupted. “I disagree! I think that it is time the provinces were recognized for the contributions they make to Llisé. We would starve without their produce and wine. Viénne’s business would grind to a halt without provincial horses to pull our carriages and our supply wagons. Their mills provide the paper for every official document that is written in the capital and yet the makers of that paper could be thrown in prison for using it to record their own business!”
“Dr. Rousseau, your opinions could land you in prison, as well. I advise you to keep them to yourself!” LeBeau snapped.
Devin stood up and addressed those at the table. “Excuse me, please. Courtesy requires that meals remain free of political and religious discussion. I, personally, find it difficult to eat with all this shouting. Please continue without me and my companions.” He turned to the Captain. “Would it be possible to have our dinners served in my cabin?”
The Captain rose, clutching his napkin, his face the color of the setting sun.
“Of course, monsieur, I am so sorry. Please accept my apologies.”
Marcus pushed his chair back and crossed the room to wait, glowering, in the doorway.
“Thank you,” Devin said with a little bow. “Please enjoy the rest of your meal, if you can.”
Gaspard snagged the wine bottle from his end of the table and followed Devin out the door.
They went down the passageway in silence. Devin fumbled with the key and then waited until the others preceded him into the room. When he closed the door, his hands were shaking.
“Well,” he said, turning to Marcus. “I suppose you think I handled that badly.”
“On the contrary,” Marcus replied. “I thought you handled it quite well. You left LeBeau looking very much like the ass Gaspard reported him to be.”
“I wasn’t expecting him to try to embarrass me publicly.”
Gaspard collapsed on Devin’s bunk and uncorked the wine. “He embarrassed himself. I doubt that anyone else agreed with him, Dev.”
“St. Clair seemed quite pleased with LeBeau’s opinions,” Devin pointed out. “He was glowering at me through most of the meal.”
Marcus folded his arms and leaned against the wall. “St. Clair bears watching and so does LeBeau. LeBeau accomplished what he intended to do tonight. If only one of the other passengers repeats this conversation to someone else, the rumor could spread quite quickly that your father favors education for the masses and elevating the Chronicles to Archival status.”
“I never advocated either of those things!” Devin protested.
“No, you didn’t but LeBeau made certain that those views entered the conversation. Whether you actually voiced them or not has little to do with it,” Marcus said.
“I’ll admit I find it difficult to support a system which educates a merchant’s son enough to carry on his father’s business but denies him the right to become a physician or priest unless he finds a sponsor to encourage his scholarship.”
“Apparently, Dr. Rousseau agrees with you.”
Gaspard leaned back against the window and grimaced. “Why don’t you put your stuff away?” he grumbled, pulling Devin’s knapsack out from behind him.
Devin just stared it. “I put it under the bunk when I left.”
He and Marcus grabbed for it at the same time, spreading the drawstring at the top to reveal a sheaf of folded papers.
“Your itinerary?” Marcus asked.
“It appears to be,” Devin replied. He unfolded it, thinking it seemed thicker than before. Something dropped to the floor from between the pages: two twigs tied with red colored thread that formed a miniature cross. He stooped to pick it up but Marcus grabbed his wrist.
“Don’t touch it,” he warned.
“Why?” Gaspard asked, bending over to see it better.
“It carries a curse,” Marcus replied.
“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Devin said.
“You would never learn about such things in the Archives,” Marcus said, “but cursed crosses are quite common in the rural provinces. Superstition claims that the curse will come true for the first one who touches it.”
“What kind of a curse?” Devin asked.
“It depends on the color of the thread,” Marcus explained. “A blue center promises misfortune, a yellow one – illness, gray – disappointment, and red symbolizes death.”
“So, someone wants me dead?” Devin asked incredulously.
“It would seem so.” Marcus stooped to slide the offending object onto a piece of paper but it eluded him, skittering across the polished wooden floor.
“For God’s sake!” Gaspard protested, picking the thing up between his thumb and forefinger. “It’s only two twigs and some thread. What possible harm could it do?”
Devin watched with a shiver of apprehension as Gaspard unlatched the tiny window and flung it out into the sea. Whoever wished him ill, had entered his locked room and tampered once again with his belongings. The theft and return of the itinerary no longer seemed quite so trivial.
