Scholar's Plot (17 page)

He took some time making up his mind, and I waited for him. Which may have been what tipped the balance.

“None of ’em seemed relieved, or happy, or nothing like that. Scholar Roger smirked a bit, but then he would. If anything, they was angry at the Professor for getting hisself in trouble. And Dayless said they should keep him on, maybe doing some other job, so he couldn’t go off and sell his old songs to the highest bidder. As if he would.”

“He might,” I said. “If some other university offered him a job that let him study his ancients. Why not help some other project along?”

“That sounds like sense to you and me,” Quicken said. “But there’s no other university would have him, not after he went and copied his paper. They put a powerful stake in papers around here.”

“So they do. Benton told me about Professor Dayless and Stint, and you, of course. And I’ve met Scholar Roger. Who else works on the project?”

“As to working, I’d not say any but the professors. They have scholar assistants, who help ’em with this and that, but even that Roger, who’s here more than most, isn’t regular like.”

“No one’s been promoted to take Benton’s place? I heard they were going hire someone to take his classes in the fall.”

And unless we solved this matter before the applicants turned up to be interviewed, Benton might not have a job to return to even if he was proved innocent of all wrongdoing.

“Aye, but how much will they know about those ancients of his? When there was nothing for him to do Professor Benton used to sit, holding a rabbit just like you are now, and natter on and on about them.”

I found myself smiling. That was the brother I remembered, far more than the sad, worried man he’d become.

“You’ve no assistant, Master Quicken? Now that Benton’s gone.”

Quicken snorted, his hands moving quickly to pull nails from a cracked slat. “I’d no need of his help. There’s not more’n half a day’s work here, unless they’re running the rabbits, and I didn’t need help then, either. It’s mostly sitting around. That, and making sure you’ve got the right collar number when you take ’em out of the cage.”

I pulled the chain on the rabbit I held around and looked at the number stamped into the tin plate — 54.

“Who makes these? I saw no metal-working tools in your storage room.”

“We order the tags and chain from a tinsmith in town. All I have to do is cut ’em to length and wire the links together.”

I felt through soft fur and found the joint. He’d done a good job, bending the ends of the wire in so the rabbit wouldn’t be scratched. And he’d relaxed into our conversation enough by now that I might get a candid answer.

“Can you think of any reason someone would wish to be rid of my brother?”

Quicken’s hands and gaze remained on the slat he was marking to cut, but a sigh of regret filled his lungs before he replied.

“I can’t, sir, and that’s a fact. Nothing that has to do with what goes on here. But I’m just the gamekeeper. I don’t know what’s involved in the professors’ formulas and graphs and all.”

So I bade him farewell, and went in search of formulas.

Thanks to Fisk’s description, I knew Professor Stint worked on the second floor, but I took the time to open a few doors on my way, and found nothing but unused offices, with dust upon desk and chair.

Professor Stint was in his laboratory, but today no braziers burned, no potions bubbled. He was staring at a sheet of paper with notes scribbled over it, and even I could see blank spaces where some item or procedure was missing.

“Who’re you? This building is restricted.” But he threw down his pen with an air of relief, oblivious to the splattering ink.

“I’m Benton Sevenson’s brother. Here to—”

“You have his notes? Hand ’em over, sir!”

“I don’t have them, yet. He says ’twill take several days to recreate them. And in exchange, Professor Dayless has granted me and my associates access to the campus and this project, so we can investigate the events that led to his dismissal.”

“What’s to investigate?” Stint said. “He copied his thesis. It’s sad, but it happens, and Portner’s right. We can’t tolerate it. A thesis must be original work.”

“You’ve dealt with my brother, and used his knowledge of ancient lore.” ’Twas a struggle to keep my voice even, but I managed. “Why would he need to cheat on his thesis? He knows more about the ancients than anyone in the Realm.”

“Not anyone. There’s Golfew over in Camden, and another man at Harold and Benjamin University who studies them too.” But my point must have struck him. He looked thoughtful for several whole seconds, before he shrugged and said, “If that’s true I’m sorry. But what does it have to do with me?”

“It means that if you want to see his notes you have to answer my questions about the project,” I said. Tact would be wasted on this man, but he wasn’t a fool. I needed to frame my questions carefully. “Benton said you were beginning to get results from one of your formulas?”

“So Dayless says, and she’s the one who runs the trials. One of my more complex formulas, too, and I made it several months ago. I need those notes, curse it! I want to try pulling some of the factors that failed in previous attempts, to see if we can isolate the element or elements that are affecting the rabbits’ brain chemistry. Then I can work from evidence, instead of that ‘comfrey for cunning, rue for sight’ nonsense.”

“You really think Gifts are just chemicals acting on the mind, like alcohol or drugs? Even though Gifts work no matter what one eats or drinks?”

I didn’t care about his theories, but Fisk has taught me that folk want to talk about their passions. If you get them started, all manner of information may be washed out with the flood.

Then I wondered if Jack Bannister had taught Fisk that, but Stint was eyeing me critically.

“You have Gifts, don’t you? Thought so, from the accent. It feels like they’re as much a part of you as your emotions, right? As much as joy or rage or laughter.”

He spoke as he would to a student, so I answered as one.

“Exactly like that. And emotions are feelings, not chemical reactions. So why should Gifts be?”

“Have you ever been drunk?” the professor asked bluntly.

“Not often. And not deeply. I don’t much care for it.”

“Why not?”

“Well, the alcohol makes me feel … oh.”

“Precisely. Alcohol, a chemical, can produce a range of emotions from merriment to melancholy. If your emotions aren’t chemical in nature, then how can chemicals affect them? It’s not just alcohol, either. Think how valerian soothes nervousness, how poppy juice not only blocks pain, but gives you a sublime sense of well-being … as long as you keep your dosage low enough that you don’t fall asleep or die.”

I might not be much of a drinker, but I had once had potions forced upon me that had changed me profoundly. That was a tale I dared not share with anyone, least of all these ruthless professors, but… “All those things have other effects,” I pointed out. “’Tis not only emotions they work upon.”

“Of course they affect the chemistry of the rest of the body, too. That’s why we need to isolate the elements that affect Gifts as much as we can, before we call for human volunteers to test them.”

“But if all the chemistry in the body is involved, how do you know ’tis not the drug’s effect on the body that will unlock or enhance Gifts? Those who are tired or in pain, which are changes in the body, are more likely to succumb to grief or despair than those who are rested and hale. That’s the body’s trouble affecting emotions. And sometimes emotions affect the body; ’tis well known that those who mourn a loss are more likely to fall ill than those who are content. So how can you separate body and mind?”

“You can’t.”

I’d become so involved in the chemist’s discourse, for personal reasons, that Professor Dayless’ voice made me jump.

“I’ve been trying to tell this fool all along that the body and mind are intricately linked, and what drugs really do is to unlock doors in the mind, doors that reveal emotions, memories, visions even. So why not Gifts or magic? But that’s all his potions do.”

“You say ‘lock’ like there was a mechanism of iron pins and keys. What you’re talking about is a chemical process—”

Professor Dayless was already bristling and I broke in hastily. “So you think Gifts and magic work in much the same way?” Had Lady Ceciel’s potions merely
unlocked
my strange magic, instead of creating it? I divided my question between them, but it was Dayless who answered first.

“Of course. It all springs from the mind. It must, when you think about it, for where else could either Gifts or magic come from? Unless you’re one of those pathetic fools who think the old gods are real.”

I looked to Professor Stint, who shrugged. “She’s right about that, if nothing else. Though everything in the mind is chemical reactions, at the core. Even thought must be a chemical reaction of some sort, because chemicals can disrupt it.”

“Most folk think that magic and Gifts are different. That Gifts are natural, if not common, and magic in normal humans is impossible. If there was ever a normal human with magic ’twould be a freak, like a man with two heads or a tail.”

Or ’twould drive a normal man mad, which was the thing I’d feared most in all the world for the last four years. I awaited her answer with my heart pounding in dread and hope.

“If it’s unnatural,” said Professor Dayless, “then why do animals have it? Or why does it sometime crop up in the simple or the mad — which are entirely different mental troubles, and spring from different roots? Why do they sometimes have magic as naturally as animals do?”

“I … I don’t know.”

“That’s because, like ‘most folk,’ you haven’t bothered to think it through. When you do, you quickly see that the main difference between the humans who possess magic and those who don’t is the ability to produce controlled and complex thought. So there must be something about that type of thinking that shuts the door in the mind behind which magic resides.”

I felt as if the solid foundation of the world had shifted, and everything I knew resettled into a new and better place. “So if that door was opened by some chance, by a chemical formula say, and a man who wasn’t mad or simple was given magic, he’d not be able to use it at will. But in moments of great emotion, when his thoughts stopped working clearly, ’twould spring up?”

“It might well work that way.” Professor Dayless appeared pleased by my comprehension and Professor Stint looked sour. “The more the controlled, thinking mind shuts down, the wider the door to magic should open. But why do you ask? We’re not working with magic, only Gifts. Which should be simpler, for that door opens easily for some, even when complex thought is present.”

“’Twas only an example,” I said. Complex thoughts were swooping through my mind like a scattered flock of sparrows. This explained why I could never make my magic perform when I tried to. And why the times that it broke out, to fight a fire, to save me from falling to my death, to help my horse leap an impossible chasm, were moments in which I had no thought but to fight or die.

“What of you, Professor Stint? Do you agree that Gifts and magic are so similar?”

“I’ve no idea,” said Stint. “But it’s all chemistry.”

I managed a few more questions, then took my leave, for I’d a great deal to think about … and not much of it involved poor Benton. But my complex, controlled mind had observed one thing, even in the midst of my emotion — ’twas Stint’s formulas that would cause the change they hoped to create, but ’twas Dayless who was in charge. And for all it might be naught but a chemical reaction in his brain, Stint resented it.

Fisk had hinted that the saboteur was probably well-paid. I wondered if Professor Stint had need of money.

It felt odd to leave Michael behind once more — but walking off with his sister at my side was a lot more comfortable, now.

“Is Michael any good at extracting information?” she asked, as we strolled along the paths to the clerk’s office. I was beginning to know my way around campus, to feel the peace that reigned while lectures were in session, with only a handful of scholars in sight. You could even hear a bird singing in one of the trees, though only country-raised Michael would know what it was. Come to think of it…

“What kind of bird is that?”

She listened only for a moment. “Barn sparrow. Is he that bad?”

“What? Oh, Michael. No, he’s surprisingly good. He asks nothing but soft questions, and then sits there looking all sympathetic and honest and interested. After a while they start babbling. And he’s not as bad at seeing the holes in a story as you’d expect. If the project is behind Benton’s woes, he’ll probably figure it out.”

Kathy gave me her version of Michael’s honest, interested stare, but hers was more penetrating than soft.

“Do you really think ’tis Hotchkiss’ murder will solve his problems, and not the project? Or did you take up that theory to score on Michael?”

Her questions weren’t soft, either.

“Honestly? At this point, I give it fifty-fifty odds either way. But Hotchkiss’ murder is the crime they suspect Michael and
me
of.”

“Ah.”

Michael would have been disturbed by my cynicism. Katherine wore the pleased look of someone whose hunch has panned out. And if I was getting that predictable, Jack would say it was time to change my pattern.

“We’re here.”

I led the way up to Clerk Peebles’ office. If anything, the stack of papers on her desk had grown in the last few days, but she set her pen in the inkpot and read Professor Dayless’ note in silence.

“So, Master Fisk, what do you want to see?”

“Isn’t that request for free access to the whole campus?” I knew it was; I’d read it as soon as we left the tower.

“Of course.” Peebles pulled out a sheet of stiff paper as she spoke, and cut three slices off it with a set of shears. “One for you, one for Master Michael, and one for Mistress Sevenson here, correct? But all the passes do is give you permission to wander around and drop in on lectures. If I know what you’re looking for, I might be able to help you find it.”

“That’s very … helpful.”

Too cursed helpful, given her original resistance.

“I told you, I like Professor Benton,” she said. “And I find it hard to believe he needed to plagiarize any part of his thesis. This is my school, as much as any scholar or professor’s. So what are you looking for?”

“I want access to the library,” I said. “I want to see this thesis Benton was supposed to have copied.”

There was no reason to mention the blackmail notes we’d taken from the desk in Hotchkiss’ study and some very good reasons not to, but I could still feel Kathy’s critical gaze. I didn’t look at her.

Clerk Peebles had a neat hand and she wrote quickly. “Give these a moment to dry before you pocket them.” She handed over three slips of paper, introducing us as guests of Professor Monica Dayless, to be welcomed in all public spaces on this campus. “When you get to the library find a scholar-assistant there, Maddy Flynn. Tell her what you’re looking for — and
why
— and she’ll help you.”

Kathy caught the stress as well, and her brows lifted. “Thank you, Mistress Peebles. I’ll tell my brother of your kindness.”

“Just clear his name,” said the clerk briskly. “That’s what matters.”

The end-of-class bell tolled, like the shift bell in the town where I’d grown up. But even the end of the workday didn’t produce the jostling mob that bubbled out of every doorway. I blew on our passes to make them dry more quickly.

“They look like a flock of blackbirds.” Kathy eyed the growing crowds. “Only nosier. And that’s saying a lot.”

She had to raise her voice to be heard. I pocketed the passes and took her arm to keep us together. It felt slim, but not fragile, and warm to hold on a day this hot.

The library’s marble entry hall was delightfully cool, but there was still a member of the scholar’s guard, a bored young man with pimples, stationed by the big map at the foot of the divided staircase.

“Can I help you? Access to the library is restricted to scholars, unless you have permission to use it.”

“We’ve passes.” I pulled them out to show him. “We’re looking for a scholar, Maddy Flynn, who works as an assistant here.”

He looked at the passes long enough to be sure they were what I said they were, which surprised me. He saw it.

“The scholar’s guard was told to keep an eye out for people who don’t belong on campus, after Master Hotchkiss was … um. I don’t know where Maddy is, but Master Hotchkiss’ clerk manages the staff. His office is at the top of the stairs, right side of the balcony there.”

Master Hotchkiss’ clerk was in his office, and had probably taken over his boss’s duties along with his own — there were five people waiting to see him. After a few minutes in line, I asked my fellows-in-waiting if any of them knew where Scholar Flynn was working today, and learned she was shelving books in history-the-seven-hundreds.

Seven centuries ago had been the midst of the Barony Wars, and I’d never heard them referred to in any other way. He saw my confusion.

“Downstairs, left door, long gallery on the left,” he said. “She’s the plump, pretty girl with a big basket of books.”

We went downstairs, took the hallway to the left, and then went through an open arch into a long room, which had been three rooms before the dividing walls had been torn out. One wall was lined with windows, which cast rounds of sunlight onto the polished wood floor. The other wall, and a number of freestanding shelves in the middle of the room, were covered with books.

History is an interest of mine, and the bright leaf on their bindings exerted a pull as strong as a tray of glittering jewelry would … maybe stronger.

But Kathy was looking at the people in the room, and she soon strode off toward a girl with a long, honey-brown braid glowing against her black scholar’s gown.

Maddy Flynn had plump pink cheeks and an even plumper bosom. She was pretty, too, but the moment Benton Sevenson’s name was mentioned it was clear that no one else stood a chance with her.

“Is he all right?” Her pleasant face was dark with concern, and bright with caring. “I haven’t… It didn’t seem right to harass him. I mean, it might be painful for him, seeing scholars. But I, we, a lot of us have been worried about him.”

“You were one of his students?” Kathy’s gaze was full of sympathetic curiosity.

“History’s my field,” the girl said. “Though I’m more interested in the warring period and rise of the lieges than the ancients. But I… Well, never mind that. Is there anything I can do to help?”

She meant
anything
, and I saw why Clerk Peebles had directed us here. But we didn’t need to break any rules, much less laws. At least, not yet.

“I’d like to see the thesis Professor Sevenson is said to have copied,” I told her. “Then we’ve some book numbers to locate: 284.629 and 443.04272.”

“The 200s are math,” she said. “And the 440s engineering. I’ll get you a master sheet, and you can 
probably find them yourselves. Just remember that a longer number isn’t necessarily a larger number and you’ll be fine. If you get confused, ask the room clerk.”

“I know how decimals work,” I told her. “But I don’t have a number for that thesis.”

“I’m not sure it’s got one, yet,” she said. “Master Hotchkiss was cataloging that section when he found it, and then it was taken away for evidence and then he died. I’m not sure where it went, but I’ll find out.” Determination gave her face a firmness it had lacked, and I wondered if Benton had seen this side of her. “You can look for your other books, while I do that.”

She led us out of the long gallery, past another, and into a cluttered, book-strewn office where she lifted a sheet of paper from a stack on top of a cabinet.

“They give us these when we first start shelving.”

One side showed a map of the library, both floors, like the map in the entry. The back held a long, numbered list … of everything.

The alphanumeric system. I was still looking at it when Maddy left, and Kathy had to pull me out of the office.

“A number for everything,” I murmured. “It’s not complete, of course.”

“They’re cataloging the Liege’s library at court,” Kathy told me. “I’ve already seen it.”

“Zero hundreds: the human mind. Thought is the tool we use to understand the world, so I suppose that make sense. But he put emotions first, numerically. Maybe because we feel before we can think? One hundreds: the physical world, geology, geography, cosmology. Two hundreds: math, used to measure that physical world. Three hundreds: language… It tells you something about old Hotchkiss, about the way he thought, that he put math, with its precision, before language.”

“Then he didn’t think much of literature and the arts,” Kathy said. “They’re the nine hundreds.”

If she knew that without looking at the sheet it must be a subject she was interested in. But I was more focused on Hotchkiss, how his mind was revealed through the numerical system he’d created. Four hundreds: science, physics, alchemy, magic. Five hundreds: ecology, plants, farming. Six hundreds: animals, animal and human anatomy, human and veterinary medicine.

“Interesting that he counted us as animals, at least in terms of our bodies.”

“But not in terms of intellect,” said Kathy. “He started his system with that. You’re right, this tells us a lot about our blackmailer.”

It felt like a dash of cold water in the face — and yes, I’ve experienced that. But blackmail, linked with this clear intricate structure giving numbers to all of reality, was as jarring as … as a mouthful of vinegar when you expected tea.

The four hundreds, which included engineering, were upstairs, divided between two rooms that hadn’t had their walls knocked out.

Sorting through the book numbers was tricky, particularly when you got into the decimals. But it got easier with practice, and within minutes I pulled 443.04272 from its shelf.

“
Devices with Multiple Applications,”
Kathy read aloud. “How could this have anything to do with blackmail?”

I turned to page 297 and found a diagram of a screwlike thing, with an X stuck on top of it. It was set into some sort of base, and surrounded by tables and formula to do with pressure and force.

“’Tis a screw,” Kathy said.

“A screw that ‘expresses exponential force in a downward direction based on…’ well, a lot of math. I’ll admit it’s not up there with embezzlement, or an affair.”

“But ’tis a screw ‘from the thesis of Scholar Willet Halprin.’ Could that be compass H, who paid four silver roundels a month?”

“Maybe. Let’s take this with us, and go find the other.”

Mathematics, the 200s, was on the other side of the second floor, in a single room that held fewer books than any of the others. Also fewer scholars — we were the only ones there.

“
Formulas for Determining or Measuring Pressure and Stress
,” I read. “
And a Surefire Cure for Insomnia, Which Works Even Sitting Upright in Broad Day
.”