The Cursewright's Vow

Chapter 7: The Cursewright's Failure, Part 2

 Whatever Casimir's outrage might have been before, it was nothing compared to the blistering fury that consumed him now. His blue eyes bulged in an anger so hot and deep it was nearly hate, and nothing Khozar El-Nalrah had seen in his long life convinced him it was not the real thing. "No! No! Those are mine! My master gave me the quills! He gave me the parchment! And that book is mine. It's mine! He's a liar, sir, he's a liar, he's lying!"

"It's no lie, Archdeacon. The chapbook is stamped with Othillion's candle. And the quills and parchment come from my own cell."

The sheer brazenness of this lie raised an anger in Casimir he had never felt in his entire life. Not even the occasional mistreatment from a drunk patron of the Prideful Lioness had ignited this kind of ire in him. His young voice, now as shrill and high-pitched as that of a screaming girl, vibrated off the many books and scrolls in the Archdeacon's office. "No! No! That's a lie, sir, that's a lie, he's a liar! HE stole that stuff! Those are my master's things! That's MY book! He's a liar, he -- "

"Casimir," the Archdeacon said gently while Deacon Pell smirked down at the boy. If Casimir heard, he showed no sign, and Khozar El-Nalrah supposed it was only his own venerable presence that prevented the boy from launching himself at Brother Pell. He was most uncertain Brother Pell would come off the victor in such a match, despite the boy's small stature.

"He's a liar, he's a liar, he's a FUCKING liar!"

Tears were running down the boy's cheeks. This ultimate imprecation, which he had heard from many of the Lioness's patrons and more than a few of the girls, was something he had never before said in his life.

"Casimir," The Archdeacon's voice was still quite strong when necessary.

The boy looked up, trembling, his dark skin ashy with agitation, small hands curled into fists.

Despite his protesting knees -- ah, by His Wisdom, sleeping tonight would be most disagreeable -- the Archdeacon crouched in front of the boy and opened the little book to its flyleaf. Stamped there was the symbol of a flaring candle, of an outmoded style not seen since before the ascension of Somilius Deyn III to the Malachite Throne. One twisted old finger delicately traced its shape. "You see, Casimir, this book does come from our Archive. How did you come by it?"

Casimir froze. "I -- I found it in a shop."

"A likely story, Archdeacon."

"I see," the Archdeacon said pleasantly. "I am sorry, Casimir, but even if you did find it in a shop, and I see no reason to think you are lying, until I learn how this book left our halls, I cannot let you have it."

"Oh, but sir, please -- "

"If I find it left our possession in a permissible way, I will return it to you. Is that well?"

Casimir fumed, but nodded, his eyes still trickling tears.

The Archdeacon now looked to the pile of parchment and quills on his tea-table. "As to the scriptorium supplies, is your master's mark on any of them?"

Casimir pulled a desperately unhappy face. "No, sir."

"Then I cannot prove they are yours. I am obliged to believe a fellow Deacon of the Book above a layperson, even a cursewright's apprentice. Again I am sorry, Casimir."

Casimir glared down at the floor, his chest hitching, but the sobs locked in his chest. With a pained grunt, the Archdeacon straightened, now reaching for the elk bone cane on which he relied.

"I'll have him removed then, Archdeacon?"

"Casimir, do you need to inform your master of his need to give you your own supplies?"