Kushiel's Scion - Jacqueline Carey [170]
Unlike Master Piero's tiny study, Master Strozzi's quarters were quite fine. We were met in an antechamber by a soft-voiced servant. He laid a finger to his lips, hushing us. "My master is resting his thoughts," he murmured. "He is not to be disturbed."
Eamonn grinned. "He's sleeping?"
The servant permitted himself a slight smile. "Return in an hour, my lords."
We spent an hour idling. There was a stationer's shop near the University, and I purchased supplies there; a pot of ink, a handful of quills, sealing wax, and a dozen sheets of pressed paper. I had been in Tiberium for over a week, and I had not yet written a letter home to assure Phèdre and Joscelin that Gilot and I had arrived safely. I felt guilty at it, for it might take weeks for a missive to arrive, and I knew they worried.
Afterward, Master Strozzi received us.
The soft-voiced servant ushered us into his presence. Master Strozzi was awake, sitting upright and erect on one of those infernal Tiberian stools. He was a formidable old man, well into his eighties, with a crisp white beard and the bald pate that seems strange to a D'Angeline eye. We may not be a hirsute folk in some ways, but what we grow, we keep in abundance.
"Imriel nó Montrève," he said, rolling the syllables of my name over his tongue with relish. "Prince Eamonn of the Dalriada. What seek you?"
It was not for nothing, I thought, that Master Strozzi had taught rhetoric for over fifty years. He had the portentious voice of a trained orator. I bowed. "Knowledge, Master."
"Aye," Eamonn echoed. "Knowledge."
"Knowledge!" Master Strozzi laid his wrinkled hands on his knees. "I could teach you to sway men's souls with the edge of your tongue, to move their hearts and minds, to leave them panting like dogs after your every word. But no." He shook his head. "You would sooner moon over that fool Piero, chasing pigeons in the Forum, gabbling over nonsense." His spine straightened further. "So be it. Speak."
We told him about Anafiel Delaunay—Anafiel de Montrève—and the arts of covertcy.
"Covertcy!" Master Strozzi's wrinkled eyelids creased. He drew his bearded chin against his breast, regarding us with distaste. "I assure you, young scholars, such a thing has never been taught at the University of Tiberium. It is the virtues we pursue in these hallowed halls, not the seditious craft of sneaking and spying."
"Yes, my lord," I said apologetically. "But he learned it somewhere, and I thought mayhap you would—"
"Not here!" Master Strozzi thundered. "Not in my University!"
Eamonn and I beat a hasty retreat.
"Dagda Mor!" he said outside the University. "He's a right old bastard, isn't he?"
"He is that," I said. "And he's lying, too."
"What?" Eamonn stared at me. "You think he taught Delaunay? Why?"
"I don't know." I shook my head. "A tell-tale around the eyes, and too much bluster. Mayhap he didn't teach Delaunay himself, but he knows more than he's saying."
Since our inquiry had come to naught, I spent the balance of the day composing a letter to Phèdre and Joscelin. I touched briefly on my futile search to uncover Delaunay's history, and wrote mostly about Master Piero and his students, and the sights and sounds and smells of Tiberium. I mentioned Lucius Tadius and his ghosts, omitting any mention of his sister.
I told them about Gilot and his budding romance. I wrote about our philosopher-beggar, too, living in his barrel in the street outside our insula, although I neglected to mention that a man had been stabbed to death there.
On the following day, I rose early and went to the wharf to hire a courier. I left Gilot sleeping and went alone, which would irritate him, but there was something pleasant about being awake while much of the city yet slept. A light mist hovered above the Tiber, its waters burnished and bronze in the dawn light. Through the mist, I could make out the small island that jutted from the waters and the Temple of Asclepius on it, dedicated