“We must consider how to frame it properly,” Dalton said. “It would be best if we remained completely out of it.”
“My thought, exactly.”
“Yes . . .” Hildemara drawled as she imagined, now caught up in the scheme. “We must appear as if we’re looking to the people for direction, rather than the other way around.”
“Others will speak the words we craft,” Bertrand said as he nodded to her. “We must at all cost remain above it—look as if our hands are bound by a noble adherence to fairness, with our fate in the hands of the wisdom of the people, as if we put that principle and their wishes above all else.”
“I have men who would be good at expressing the proper tone.” Dalton stroked a finger beneath his lower lip. “Wherever Lord Rahl goes, those who speak for us must go behind, and deliver the message we fashion.”
“That’s right,” Bertrand said. “A message more powerful, more cutting, more frightening.”
Deep in thought, trying to envision all requisite elements of the strategy, Dalton waggled a finger. “Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor will bring swift and unpleasant action, should they suspect such a thing. In fact, it would be best if they never even knew of the things the people are told—at least in the beginning. Our messages must be delivered only after they have gone on to the next place.
“Let them offer hope. We will come behind and portray the hope of freedom they offer as lies—frighten people out of such thoughts.”
Dalton knew how easily the minds of the people could be manipulated with the right words, especially if people were distracted by other matters and confused with contradictions.
“If done well, the people will resoundingly approve of us as we at the same time betray them.” Dalton smiled at last. “When I get through with them, they will cheer us on to the task.”
Bertrand took another swig of rum. “Now you’re thinking like the man I hired.”
“But when the people reject his offer,” Hildemara said, “Lord Rahl will no doubt react badly to losing; he will turn to force.”
“Possibly.” Bertrand set down the goblet. “But by then the Order will have captured the Dominie Dirtch, and it will be too late for Lord Rahl to do anything about it. He and the Mother Confessor will be isolated, without hope of reinforcements.”
“Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor will be trapped in Anderith . . .” She smiled at last, closing her clawed fingers into a fist. “And Jagang will have them.”
Bertrand grinned. “And reward us.” He turned to Dalton. “Where are the D’Haran troops billeted?”
“Between here and Fairfield.”
“Good. Let Lord Rahl and the Mother Confessor have anything they want. Let them do whatever they wish. We must appear to be most accommodating.”
Dalton nodded. “They said they wanted to see the library.”
Bertrand swept up his goblet again. “Fine. Let them have the run of it—see what they wish. There is nothing in the library that could be of any help to them.”
Richard turned to the ruckus.
“Shoo!” Vedetta Firkin yelled. The old woman cast her arms forward, adding physical threat to the verbal one she had already delivered. “Shoo, you thief!”
The raven out on the board attached to the windowsill leaped about, flapping its wings, loudly expressing its displeasure with her. She looked around and then snatched a stick up from where it leaned against the wall, ready to hand for propping the next window open. Wielding the stick like a sword, she leaned out the open window and swiped at the raven. Wings outstretched, neck plumage ruffed, feathers on its head lifted like horns, it hopped back and screeched at her.
Again she slashed at the big black bird. This time the raven made a strategic withdrawal to a nearby branch. From a position of safety, it delivered a boisterous lecture. She slammed the window shut.
Vedetta Firkin turned and, after setting down the stick, triumphantly brushed clean her hands. She lifted her nose as she returned to people business.
Richard and Kahlan had spoken with her when they came into the library in order to put her mind at ease. Richard wanted to insure her cooperation rather than have her perhaps get the notion that it was somehow her duty to hide books from them. She had responded brightly to their casual and friendly manner with her.
“Sorry,” she whispered in low voice, as if to compensate for the yelling. She scurried closer to Richard and Kahlan.
“I tacked that board to the sill, and I put seeds on it for the birds, but those vile ravens come and steal the seeds.”
“Ravens are birds, too,” Richard said.
The woman straightened, a little befuddled. “Yes, but . . . they’re ravens. Nuisance birds, they are. They steal all the seeds and then the lovely little songbirds don’t come by. I so love the song birds.”
“I see,” Richard said with a smile before he turned back to his book.
“Anyway, Lord Rahl, Mother Confessor, sorry for the disturbance. I just didn’t want those noisy ravens bothering you like they’re apt to do. Best to just get rid of them right off. I will try to keep it quiet for you from now on.”
Kahlan smiled up at the woman. “Thank you, Mistress Firkin.”
She paused before turning away. “Excuse me for saying so, Lord Rahl, but you have a delightful smile. It reminds me very much of the smile of a friend of mine.”
“Really? Who would that be?” Richard asked, absently.
“Ruben—” Her face reddened. “He’s a gentleman friend.”
Richard showed her the smile she liked. “I’m sure you give him reason to smile, Mistress Firkin.”
“Ruben,” Kahlan muttered as the woman started to leave. “Reminds me of Zedd. He used to sometimes use the name Ruben.”
Richard sighed with longing for his missing grandfather. “I wish that old man was here, now,” he whispered to Kahlan.
“If you need anything,” Vedetta Firkin said over her shoulder as she shuffled away, “please don’t hesitate to ask. I’m quite knowledgeable about the culture of Anderith—about our history.”
“Yes, thank you,” Richard called after the woman, using the opportunity while her back was turned to give Kahlan’s leg an intimate squeeze under the table.
“Richard,” Kahlan said in a rising tone, “keep your mind on your work.”
Richard patted her thigh in acquiescence. It would be easier to keep his mind on what he was reading without the sweet warmth of her so near. He flipped the book closed and pulled another close. He opened the old book of town records and scanned for anything that looked remotely useful.
They had not found a wealth of information, but he had managed to find enough to piece together facts that might be useful. Without doubt, the library was proving worth his time, as he was beginning to get a sense of the place that had been missing before. It truly was a library of culture. Because of their attitudes and professed beliefs, Richard doubted that many people had the vaguest idea of the obscure history right under their noses, hiding in plain sight.
He was coming to the realization that much of ancient Anderith, before the Hakens, had benefited from direction that eclipsed the development of the people at the time. A benevolent hand had protected them.
By the ancient songs and prayers he had found set down, and the later accounts of the way homage was paid to this shepherding protector, Richard suspected it to be the hand of Joseph Ander. Such adoration would suit the man, as Kolo described him. Richard recognized much of the miraculous guidance as possibly being the work of a wizard. Without this figure after he was gone, the people were like orphans, lost without the succor of idols they worshiped but which no longer answered them. They were bewildered and at the mercy of forces they didn’t understand.
Richard leaned back and stretched as he yawned. The old books infused the library with a musty aroma. Rather intriguing, in a long-hidden-mystery sort of way, but the smell was not altogether pleasant, either. He was beginning to long for the fresh sunny air on
the other side of the windows as much as he longed for the end of the long-hidden mystery.
Du Chaillu sat nearby, stroking a loving hand over her unborn baby as she studied a book with intricate illuminations on many of its pages. There were drawings of small animals: ferrets, weasels, voles, foxes, and such. She couldn’t read, but the book full of drawings had her in a constant grin. She’d never seen anything like it. Richard had never seen her dark eyes sparkle so. She was as delighted as a child.
Jiaan lounged nearby. At least, the blade master did a good imitation of lounging. Richard knew he was simply making himself unobtrusive so he could watch everything. A half-dozen D’Haran soldiers strolled the room. There were Ander guards, too, at the doors.
Some of the other people had immediately left the library, fearing they might disturb the Mother Confessor and Lord Rahl. A few remained. Spies, Kahlan had suggested to him, sent to watch them. He had already formed that opinion.
He didn’t trust the Minister any more than Kahlan did. From the first time the subject of Anderith had come up, her obvious distaste for the place had colored his view of it. The Minister of Culture had done nothing to alter his impression, and had lent weight to Kahlan’s warnings about the man.
“Here,” Richard said, tapping the page. “Here it is again.”
Kahlan leaned close and looked. She made a sound deep in her throat at seeing the name: Westbrook.
“What this is saying here confirms what we’ve found before,” Richard said.
“I know the place. It’s a little town. Not much there, from what I recall.”
Richard lifted his arm and signaled for the attention of the old woman. She came scurrying back at once.
“Yes, Lord Rahl? May I be of assistance?”
“Mistress Firkin, you said you know a lot about the history of Anderith.”
“Oh, yes, I do. It’s my favorite subject.”
“Well, I’ve now found several places where it mentions a place called Westbrook. It says Joseph Ander once lived there.”
“Yes, that’s true. It’s up in the foothills of the mountains. Up above the Nareef Valley.”
Kahlan had already told him that much, but it was good to know the woman wasn’t trying to mislead them, or conceal information.
“And is there anything left there of him? Anything that belonged to him?”
She smiled her enthusiasm, pleased he wanted to know about Joseph Ander, the namesake of her land. “Why, yes, there is a small shrine to Joseph Ander there. People may go and see the chair he once used, and a few other small items.
“The house he lived in burned down just recently—a terrible fire it was—but some things were saved because they had been taken away while the house was undergoing repairs. Water kept getting in, ruining things. Wind ripped up roof shingles. Tree branches—must have been—broke the windows and the wind got in there something fierce, blowing the rain in, getting everything wet. Ruined a lot of the valuable things of his. Then the fire—from lightning, people believe—burned the place to the ground.
“But some of his things were saved, like I said, because they were out of there while repairs were being made—before the fire. So, now, those things are displayed so people can see them. See the actual chair he sat in.”
She leaned down. “And, most interesting to me, there are some of his writings still intact.”
Richard sat up straighter. “Writing?”
She nodded her gray head of hair. “I’ve read them all. Nothing really important. Just his observations about the mountains around where he lived, about the town, and about some of the people he knew. Nothing important, but it is still interesting.”
“I see.”
“Not important, anyway, like his things we have here.”
Richard was now at full attention. “What things?”
She swept a hand out. “We have some of his writings, here, in our vault. His dealings with others, letters, books on his beliefs. Things like that.
“Would you like to see them?”
Richard tried his best not to look too interested. He didn’t want these people to know what he was looking for; that was why he hadn’t asked for anything specific in the first place.
“Yes, that would be interesting. I’ve always had an interest in . . . in history. I’d like to see his writings.”
He, along with Vedetta Firkin, noticed someone coming down the stairs. It was a messenger of some sort—Richard had seen a number of them, all dressed the same. The redheaded man saw Mistress Firkin talking to Richard and Kahlan, so he spread his feet and clasped his hands behind his back as he waited at a distance.
Richard didn’t want to be talking about Joseph Ander’s works while a messenger stood watching, so he gestured. “Why don’t you see to him?”
Vedetta Firkin bowed her appreciation of his indulgence. “Excuse me for just a moment, then.”
Kahlan shut her book and set it atop the others she had already been through. “Richard, we need to get going. We have meetings with the Directors and a few other people. We can come back.”
“Right.” He let out a sigh. “At least we don’t have to meet with the Minister again. I couldn’t take another of those feasts.”
“I’m sure he will be just as glad we declined his invitation. I don’t know why, but the two of us always seem to somehow spoil festive gatherings.”
Richard agreed and went to collect Du Chaillu. Mistress Firkin returned as Du Chaillu was getting up.
“I would be happy to locate the books and bring them out of the vault for you, Lord Rahl, but I have a quick errand to run first, if you could wait for just a short time. I won’t be long. I’m sure you will find the writings of Joseph Ander a delight. Not many people get the chance to see them, but for someone as important as yourself and the Mother Confessor, I would—”
“To tell you the truth, Mistress Firkin, I would love to see the books. Right now, though, we must go speak with the Directors, but I could return afterward, later this afternoon, or this evening?”
“That would be perfect,” she said, grinning and dry-washing her hands. “It will give me time to locate them all and pull them out. I will have them ready for you when you return.”
“Thank you so much. The Mother Confessor and I can’t wait to see such rare books.”
Richard paused and turned back to her. “And Mistress Firkin, I’d suggest you give that raven some seeds. The poor thing looks frantic.”
She waggled her fingers in a wave. “If you say so, Lord Rahl.”
He stood when the old woman came into the room on the arm of one of his messengers.
“Mistress Firkin, thank you for coming.”
“Well, my, my, Master Campbell, but don’t you have a fine office.” She peered around as if she was interested in purchasing the place. “Yes, very fine indeed.”
“Thank you, Mistress Firkin.”
He tilted his head, ordering the messenger out. The man shut the door behind himself.
“Oh, and look,” she said, pressing her hands prayerfully together under her chin. “Look at all the fine books. Why, I never knew there were so many fine volumes up here.”
“Law books, mostly. My interest is in the law.”
She turned her attention his way. “A fine calling, Master Campbell. A fine calling. Good for you. You keep at it, now.”
“Yes, I intend as much. Mistress Firkin, speaking of the law, that brings me to the subject of my calling you up here.”
She gave a sidelong glance to the chair. He deliberately didn’t offer it, but instead kept her standing.
“I had a report of a man visiting the library who was also interested in the law. It seems he made a big to-do.” Dalton put his fists on the leather pad inlaid into his desk and leaned forward on them, fixing her with a glare. “It was reported that you took a restricted book out of the vault, without authorization, and showed it to him.”
As quick as that, she went from a chatty old woman to a terrified
old woman.
While what she’d done wasn’t altogether uncommon, it was a violation of the rules, and thus the law. Most such laws were only selectively enforced, with violations only mildly punished, if at all. But occasionally people did get into trouble over violating such laws. As a man of the law, Dalton understood the value of laws widely ignored; they ensnared nearly everyone, thus giving you power over people. Hers was a serious offense, just one step below theft of cultural treasures, if he chose to pursue it.
She fumbled with a button at her throat. “But I never let him touch it, Master Campbell. I swear. I kept it in my hand every moment. I even turned the pages. I was only, letting him look at the writing of our glorious founding father. I didn’t intend—”
“Nonetheless, it is not permitted, and it was reported, therefore I must take action.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dalton straightened. “Bring me the book.” He tapped his desk. “Bring me the book at once. At once, do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. At once.”
“You bring it up here and put it on my desk so I can look it over. If there is no valuable information that might have been betrayed to a spy, I will not recommend any disciplinary action—this time. But you had better not be caught breaking the rules again, Mistress Firkin. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” She was nearly in tears. “Master Campbell, the Mother Confessor and the Lord Rahl have been down in the library.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Lord Rahl asked to see Joseph Ander’s books and writings. What should I do?”
Dalton could hardly believe the man was wasting his time looking over such useless books. He almost felt sorry for the Lord Rahl in his ignorance. Almost.
“The Mother Confessor and Lord Rahl are honored guests as well as being important people. They may see any book in our library. There are to be no restrictions on them. None. You hereby have authorization to show them anything we have.”
He tapped his desk again. “But that book you showed to that other man, that Ruben fellow, I want that book on my desk, and I want it now.”
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