If that compromise is agreeable to you, then I will make arrangements for you to come here by train. I would of course like you to keep your visit as brief as possible; as you yourself have noted, the translation proceeds more quickly with more than one set of eyes on it, and I would not want this to delay it any more than necessary.
I hope I need not remind you that our previous agreement remains in force. I have no doubt that many people here will want to know details of your work—your own family not least among them—but surely an honourable young woman such as yourself would not go back on her word, whatever my previous missteps may have been.
Cordially,
Marcus Fitzarthur
Lord Gleinleigh
FROM THE DIARY OF AUDREY CAMHERST
10 Messis
Free air at last! Stokesley has become so claustrophobia-inducing since Cora’s confession; it was an unspeakable relief to see it receding into the distance and know that I will not have to go back for several days at least. If only it did not feel like I’m leaving Kudshayn to play hostage for my good behaviour in Falchester.
I intend to behave . . . mostly. I haven’t even smuggled out the copies of our papers—though admittedly that’s in part because I haven’t had time to make copies of all of them. But I’m also worried that other people in Gleinleigh’s employ might go through my things and be looking especially for me to break my word now, so instead Kudshayn has been hiding our papers when he goes on his morning walks in the woods behind Stokesley.
Paranoia? Perhaps. But I had rather give in to a little paranoia and later find out it wasn’t necessary than fail to take these precautions and regret it in the end.
Anyway, I will keep my word to Gleinleigh insofar as I will not say anything to anyone about Samšin and Nahri and Imalkit and Ektabr, or the fact that the tablets describe the origins of various civilized technologies and practices. (What would happen if I did? I may know the sorts of ink-nosed people who would find that absolutely fascinating, but it isn’t as if I’d be giving away the secrets of dragonbone synthesis.) I did not, however, promise to keep my mouth shut about Gleinleigh himself, and I intend to ask for advice on that front from all the people closest to me.
I have already done so a little, because of course everyone here at Clarton Square wanted to hear all about my work before the door had closed behind me. I reminded them that I am sworn to secrecy; Papa shrugged, Mama said that was absurd, and Lotte said she thought it all sounded wonderfully mysterious. I said, “There is mystery in prothetic anaptyxis and Early Draconean vowel harmony, but not the kind any sensible person would enjoy,” and she laughed. (I have missed Lotte! She is thriving here, as I knew she would. And she has several beaus, though I would bet my favourite pen I know which one she’ll choose.)
But I waited until dinnertime to tell them what I’ve learned about Gleinleigh, and about Cora. Papa said, “He visited the offices of Carrigdon and Rudge recently—I presume he chose them because they’ve also been publishing Mother’s memoirs. So I doubt he lied about his intent to publish the translation. And it makes sense to do that before the congress, if he can. But profiting off the excitement over Draconeans coming here doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a dyed-in-the-wool Calderite would do.”
“Maybe he’s trying to get ahead of Mrs. Kefford somehow,” Lotte said. “You should hear the stories people have told me—not about those two specifically, but that whole set. They’re all dreadful rivals, because they think of the artifacts and such as ways of keeping score, not as things with intellectual or scholarly value.”
(I had to hide a grin when she said that. Lotte is the least scholarly of us, but she has inherited in full the Camherst/Trent disdain for people who put egotism ahead of the advancement of knowledge.)
Then I thought about what she’d said. “Perhaps . . . I can certainly see him as that sort of man, and it would explain why he’s going to such lengths to make certain I don’t share anything. But in what world would I talk to someone like Mrs. Kefford?”
“To influence her husband?” Lotte said. “He was recently named the Dissenting Speaker, so unless something changes between now and the congress, he’ll be at the head of the anti-Draconean vote.”
I can’t blame my ignorance on being cooped up at Stokesley; I wouldn’t have paid attention to Synedrion politics even if I were in Falchester. But if Gleinleigh thinks I could make a dent in Mr. Kefford’s bigotry, he has a higher opinion of my abilities than I do, and I said so.
Mama said, “I am surprised he was willing to let you come here at all. For all he knows, you could be telling us the whole tale right now.”
“He knows she’s too honourable for that,” Lotte said.
I snorted. “Maybe—but I think it’s more an attempt to repair the damage Lady Plimmer caused. Not to mention Cora.”
“Not her,” Lotte said stoutly. “From what you’ve said in your letters, I believe she meant it when she said she wouldn’t tell him. After all, she didn’t have to tell you that she’d read your diary and your letters. Why do that, and then go on telling her uncle everything?”
“You don’t know Cora,” I said darkly. “Who can understand how she thinks?”
Except I can, if I let myself. She is very fond of rules and routine, and Gleinleigh had set her a rule. But there are other rules, less explicit ones, about honesty and friendship, and she said herself that those were what motivated her to tell me. I just—
I can’t deal with betrayal. Not from someone I thought was a friend. I’ve been through it before, and the thought that I’ve been foolish enough to let it happen again is . . . “unbearable” doesn’t come close to summing it up. I can’t even bring myself to admit this openly to my family, and they of all people would understand. But I suspect they can guess it anyway, because they know me so well.
Enough of that. I have work to do; I should write to Mr. Lepperton so it can go out with the morning post (nobody reading my letters here!), and hope that he either doesn’t know I’m working for Gleinleigh, or doesn’t hold it against me. Even if he does, though, I think I can get around him. I didn’t tell Gleinleigh this, because I suspected he would do exactly what he did and try to get the tablet himself so I wouldn’t have to come to Falchester . . . but I have the perfect lever to move Lepperton onto my side.
FROM THE DIARY OF WALTER LEPPERTON
13 Messis
Most peculiar visit today. Audrey Camherst, granddaughter of Lord and Lady Trent, came to look at one of my tablets! Same one that pompous ass Gleinleigh tried to buy; I hear she is working on that cache he found. Was somewhat inclined to refuse her access—would serve Gleinleigh right for outbidding me on the head of that monumental dracosphinx back in ’54. I would have loaded it onto a ship that was not destined to sink to the bottom of the Sea of Alsukir. But her letter said she originally heard of it from Elias Eells, and he sent a note asking me to let her see it, as a favour to him. Quite unclear as to why it matters so much to anyone that she be permitted to study it, but Eells is a good chap, and I can’t see what harm it does.
So let the young lady take a look, and she got very excited. Broken bit of clay, hardly the most remarkable thing in my collection—is it really so valuable? Might contact Emmerson’s about arranging an auction. Or—better yet—find translator, publish before G gets his own out. (Mine is much shorter anyway.) Great appetite for Draconean matters these days, what with the congress and all. Not Camherst girl, though; that would only put me in G’s shadow.