The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 7: The Cursewright's Failure, Part 2

"Archdeacon, I just said -- "

Khozar El-Nalrah gave Deacon Pell one of his exceedingly few angry glares. Pell quieted.

"Casimir?"

"I -- yes." Still he struggled not to cry in front of these men, Pell in particular.

"In that case, Brother Pell, there is no need to 'remove' this boy, as he will remove himself. However, should he return to continue his studies, he has my leave to stay." The Archdeacon leaned on his cane and smiled down at Casimir. "And he may come to my office to study while I take my afternoon meditation in my cell, if the main halls are too boisterous."

"Archdeacon, I really don't think that would be appropriate."

"I am sure you don't, Brother Pell, but kindly oblige me by telling me the name of the current Archdeacon of this Archive."

Deacon Pell sighed. "Khozar El-Nalrah."

"Just so, Brother Pell." The Archdeacon turned to Casimir once more. "If you need to go, boy, best go now. Tell your master the Archdeacon says you may study here. But make sure anything he lends you bears his mark. Is that well?"

Casimir couldn't trust himself to speak, so, his eyes downcast, he only nodded, throwing Deacon Pell a final hateful glare as he marched out of the Archdeacon's office. The Deacon only smirked in return, gathering the parchment and quills up slowly enough so that when he followed he wouldn't encounter the boy.

Before he left, though, the Archdeacon called after him. "Brother Pell?" Deacon Pell turned about with a politely watchful expression. "The mark on this copy of D'Nel Teraz is old. Quite old. Unless I am mistaken, older volumes in this condition were ordered -- by me, unless I am very forgetful indeed -- to be destroyed or stripped for palimpsests."

"Er -- that may be, Archdeacon. I did not recognize the mark as being so old."

"Understandable, Brother Pell. It is after all only a matter of housekeeping. But I also seem to recall that the Argent Council requested we not replace discontinued volumes that related to the Academies Arcane. An effort to curry the Malachite Throne."

Now Deacon Pell shifted uncomfortably. "I -- I did not realize this was such a volume."

"Understandable, Brother Pell. Despite your many advanced courses of study, it is entirely possible, however disagreeable, that you never encountered stories of the Lady Terazla, although she is the most famous cursewright ever to have lived."

Deacon Pell responded with a trickle of nervous perspiration.

"But I suppose a volume our patrons would be most pleased for us to lose and which we ourselves have decided we have no need to retain is better on a refuse pile than in the hands of that boy, is that not so?"

Pell said nothing to the Archdeacon's vague smile, shifting ever more restlessly from one foot to the other as Khozar El-Nalrah somehow forgot to dismiss him.

"Brother Pell, you have indicated you know Ammas Mourthia. He plies his questionably legal trade in the old Temple of the Graces, is that not so?"

"Yes?" Deacon Pell's voice was uncertain, though he knew the answer perfectly well.

"There is an establishment directly next door to the old temple. The something Lioness. It has a most accurate and, if an old man may say so, alluring depiction of a Namarri queen on its sign."

Deacon Pell's throat was suddenly too dry to answer.

"I have heard other rumors, disagreeably slanderous ones, no doubt, that some of our own deacons patronize this place. Have you heard these rumors?" The Archdeacon's smile remained as vague as his eyes were piercing.

"I -- I have."

"And Casimir's mother was once employed there."

"That I -- I don't know, Archdeacon."

"I would imagine any of our Deacons who forgot their vows in that particular establishment would find Casimir's presence here most disagreeable, even though the boy has never so much as whispered a word to me about such occurrences. Remind me, Brother Pell, what is the prescribed penalty for a Deacon of the Book who breaks his vow of chastity?"

"It -- is not too -- severe, Archdeacon, a matter of scroll work, scriptorium toiling -- things of that nature -- "

"Yes, that is very true. His Wisdom is forgiving of such lapses in judgment, for who is lonelier than a man or woman who lives their life through dry old tomes like ours? However -- my memory does fail me, Brother Pell, my age is catching up with me -- I do seem to recall the penalty for purchasing carnal favors is a trice heavier. His Wisdom considers such things to be little better than abusing slaves. Do you happen to remember it?"

Deacon Pell's face was very, very white. "Expulsion and branding."

"Yes. A most disagreeable punishment. Thank His Wisdom that it is one I am loath to impose."

Deacon Pell only nodded.

"I should hate to feel obliged to impose such a penalty, especially when the Sultan's janissaries visit this city so frequently, and just as frequently forget His Most Holy and Eternal Majesty's current, more agreeable dictates toward our order."

"I -- I should hate that too."

"Then we are in agreement, Brother Pell, that Casimir may study here without objection?"

Again Deacon Pell nodded.

The Archdeacon's vague smile became warmer. "Most agreeable, Brother Pell. Why not return to your own studies?" With no small sign of relief, Deacon Pell turned to go. The Archdeacon called him back again. "Brother Pell, I almost forgot to mention something that concerns you. As I took my morning constitutional on the balconies today, I could not help but notice the bird leavings have piled up most disagreeably. We ought to assign a contingent of acolytes to scour it, don't you agree?"

Pell flushed but nodded, if stiffly.

"Very good. You will lead that contingent. Be sure to personally demonstrate to the acolytes how to scour the guano. Be thorough, Brother Pell." The Archdeacon began filling a fresh bowl of kossun smoke, his gnarled fingers moving with exquisite care. "Well?" Deacon Pell still stood in his door. "You may go, Brother Pell." The Deacon departed, his cheeks burning.

With a sigh Khozar El-Nalrah turned and puffed sweet kossun smoke into the afternoon haze, hoping Ammas Mourthia was a good enough teacher to instruct that nice young man. Deaconess Hadeen and he would have to have a mostly agreeable conversation regarding her disposal of abandoned volumes, but the Archdeacon did not think she would object to him returning the chapbook to Casimir instead of herself. Smoking his pipe, he anticipated the broken sleep that would result from so simple a gesture of friendship as crouching down to comfort a heartbroken child with a resigned weariness that was almost comforting.