Among Wolves. Nancy Wallace K.

only a courtesy – giving Marcus the extra space his huge frame demanded – but Devin saw a momentary look of distaste cross the man’s face as well.

      The Captain seized his soup spoon to sample the first offering.

      “So tell us all the news from Coreé, monsieur,” he demanded of Devin. “What is troubling hearts in the capital this spring?”

      “My friend Gaspard and I are students at the Académie,” Devin replied. “We haven’t had much time for political intrigue.”

      “And what are you studying?” the Captain asked, taking a noisy slurp of his fish chowder.

      “I’m a certified historian but I am training to work in the Archives,” Devin replied.

      “Apparently, you don’t crave excitement, then,” the Captain said with a laugh. His gaze fell on Gaspard. “And you are René Forneaux’s son, are you not?”

      Gaspard crooked an eyebrow. “Only if you catch him on the rare day that he will admit it.”

      Sophie giggled and Gaspard rewarded her with a wink.

      “You and your father are not on good terms?” Henri LeBeau asked.

      Gaspard shook his head and downed a spoonful of chowder. “On the contrary, Monsieur LeBeau, we are on excellent terms, as long as we aren’t forced to spend any time together.”

      St. Clair’s spoon hit his plate with a sharp report. “Your pardon,” he remarked hastily.

      Devin cleared his throat. “Surely, dinner discussion shouldn’t center on such private matters. Mr. LeBeau, since you are a professor at the Académie, perhaps you could tell us about some of the courses you teach?”

      The Captain laughed, elbowing Devin. “I see your father raised a diplomat, monsieur. Perhaps your talents will be wasted in the Archives.”

      “Surely not,” LeBeau said. “Llisé is always in need of scrupulous historians to guard our written records. After all, our history defines us as a people. Wouldn’t you agree, Monsieur Roche?”

      “I would,” Devin said with a nod. “We cannot safeguard our future without venerating the past.”

      “Well said,” Dr. Rousseau chimed in. “I wish more young people shared your sentiments.”

      “I know you and Monsieur Forneaux plan to visit all fifteen provinces in the next year,” LeBeau began. “Of what value will such a trip be to an archivist, monsieur?”

      Devin chose his words carefully before he spoke. “It is something I have always wanted to do. Coreé has its libraries; the history and literature of a thousand years. The provinces have their Chronicles. Each province, including Viénne, has a unique character, and yet together they form Llisé. How can I understand the whole without understanding the parts that comprise it?”

      Dr. Rousseau nodded his head approvingly. “Perhaps our Captain is right. Your skills may be wasted in the Archives. We need more young men like you on the Council. My God, written language is still forbidden in the provinces. A man can only be educated if he is recommended by the village elders, and then he must find a sponsor to provide the financial backing to reach Coreé and attend a school. How many intelligent individuals are languishing in the provinces that might serve us better if they could read and write?”

      “You verge on heresy,” LeBeau said coldly.

      “And yet, we are all human beings, LeBeau,” Dr. Rousseau retorted. “Some of us were simply fortunate enough to be born into families where education is taken for granted, not regarded as a privilege for the chosen few.”

      “My family has personally sponsored a number of bright young men from Tirolien,” LeBeau replied. “As I am certain Chancellor Roche’s family has done in Sorrento. Every family that holds estates in the provinces recognizes the responsibility to instruct those unique individuals who can tolerate the demands of education.”

      “A child is a child whether he is born into poverty or privilege,” Devin said quietly. “Who are we to determine who can and will be educated?”

      “The determination is made by the wisest men of the village. Who is a better judge of a boy’s worth than his own people?” LeBeau retorted.

      “I am not familiar with the actual process,” Devin replied, dipping his spoon into his chowder. “How are potential candidates identified?”

      Gustave Christophe raised his hand tentatively. “My own son will receive schooling so he can carry on my business. But a father may also recommend his son to the elders if he shows exceptional promise.”

      “What if the child is an orphan?” Devin asked.

      “The men of the village can speak for him,” Gustave replied. “There is such a boy in my own village. His parents died when he was ten years old. He sweeps my shop in exchange for room and board. He shows skill in numbers and counting. I spoke for him to the elders.”

      “And is he attending school?” Devin asked.

      “He has no sponsor, monsieur.”

      “Where do you live in Tirolien?”

      “Tarente, monsieur.”

      “I plan to travel through there in July,” Devin told him. “I would like to meet this boy, if you will give me directions to your shop. Perhaps my father can sponsor him.”

      “Thank you very much, monsieur,” Gustave replied, bowing.

      Marcus shifted uncomfortably but Devin ignored him. This was exactly the kind of thing he intended to include in his report to his father. How many other bright young children lacked sponsors to pay for their schooling? It was a problem that needed to be addressed.

      LeBeau fixed Devin with a grim stare. “I had heard that there is an ulterior motive for your trip.”

      “And what is that?” Dr. Rousseau asked.

      “It is rumored that Monsieur Roche intends to memorize the Chronicles in as many provinces as he can,” LeBeau said. “Is that true?”

      Devin placed his spoon carefully on his soup plate. Conversation had stopped. All eyes were on him.

      “That was my original intention,” he admitted.

      A slight gasp escaped from the lower end of the table. Devin suspected St. Clair but didn’t risk confirming it by a glance.

      “And your objective has since been amended?” LeBeau continued.

      “Not entirely,” Devin replied, aware of Marcus’s guarded expression. “I do intend to memorize some of the Chronicles. I cannot and would not record them in any kind of written document. My position as a historian precludes that.”

      “Then what is the point of your project?” LeBeau demanded.

      “It is only for my own information,” Devin answered. “I would like to understand our realm better. I am only familiar with our written history. Surely the vast treasury of story and song that makes up the tradition of the provinces is of value, too?”

      “Legally, it is of value only to those who live in the provinces,” LeBeau pointed out. “Anything of historical importance has been officially recorded in Coreé. The rest is merely hearsay. Why would a man of your education and training waste his time on such a task?”

      Devin held a palm up. “Monsieur, I will admit I am at a loss as to why this concerns you.”

      “You are the son of our Chancellor,” LeBeau remarked sternly. “Are the sentiments you have voiced his as well?”

      God, Devin thought. He apparently had no diplomatic skills what so ever or he would never have allowed the conversation to have gotten this far.

      Gaspard’s wine glass smacked down on the table. “Don’t be an ass,