BOOK TWO
Daniel Leary eased his way around a group of Kostroman citizens, most of them arrayed like peacocks, already gathered in the third-floor hallway hours before the Founder’s Day activities would begin. The procession would wind through all the districts of Kostroma City, but the best place to view it for those who weren’t in the grandstands immediately below was from the upper portico of the palace facade.
In contrast to the crush at the front of the building, the hall at the back of the north wing was empty except for a pair of men arguing about freight rates and, at the end, the Electoral Librarian with her hand on the padlocked library door. The staple and the lock itself were new since when Daniel last visited the palace.
“Good morning, Mundy!” Daniel called, waving the loose ball of his handkerchief containing the insect he’d brought. “I’m glad I caught you before you got your seat for the celebrations. Though if you want to leave now . . . ?”
The reserved expression on Mundy’s thin face broke into sudden recognition. “Good morning indeed, Lieutenant,” she said. “Without your uniform I wasn’t sure who it was.”
She pressed the thumb and index finger of her right hand against the lock’s identification plates. The hasp popped open. “I was arriving, not leaving. You’re more than welcome. In fact I was regretting I hadn’t come to thank you already. I suppose you’ve been occupied with your duties, but I should have made the effort.”
Holding the lock in one hand, she swung the door open and gestured Daniel into the library. “I cleared up some cataloging matters this morning in my apartment before coming in. I have a personal terminal.”
She gestured toward the flat bulge along her thigh.
“I should have checked on the work earlier,” Daniel said in apology. “Not that I was concerned about Woetjans.”
Shelving already rose floor to ceiling to cover a quarter of the library’s area. The room was noticeably dimmer as a result, even now near midday, but conduit snaked across the ceiling decorations in obvious preparation for artificial lighting.
“As for my duties,” he added with a tinge of bitterness he didn’t like to hear in his voice, “no doubt I’ll be informed when any are assigned me. I expected to be sent on a round of diplomatic parties, but Admiral Lasowski’s secretary takes care of that.”
Daniel cleared his throat, swallowing his next intended comment with the phlegm. The justification for Lasowski’s behavior was that “young Leary is a hothead who can’t hold his tongue.” No point in providing supporting evidence.
“The secretary’s a Martino of Ulm,” he said instead. “A very cultured fellow and handsome in his way. But not RCN.”
Mundy ignored the implications either out of disinterest or because she thought the discussion would be painful to her visitor. She walked down an aisle of quite practical width, gesturing to the new shelves.
“Leary,” she said, “I wouldn’t have believed it was possible in this length of time. I’ve cleared a third of the boxes off the floor. I truly believe that in a few days I’ll be able to start the rough sorting. I thought . . . I didn’t think . . .”
She turned to face him. “Lieutenant Leary,” she said, stiff as a statue with the light of the north windows behind her, “when we first met my behavior was unworthy of a citizen of Cinnabar, let alone a Mundy of Chatsworth. I offer you my sincere apologies—and my hand, if you’ll take it.”
She held out her hand. Daniel reached for it with both of his, then realized he held the handkerchief with his prize in his left.
They shook right-handed. Mundy’s flesh felt like ivory, dry and firm. “I saw nothing in your behavior that in any way discredited one of the great houses of the Republic,” he said. “And, ah . . . When I was growing up on Bantry I was Mister Leary to my tutors, but always Daniel to the other children on the estate. My friends.”
Mundy smiled without humor. “Mistress Boileau calls me Adele,” she said. “I’ve always called her `Mistress Boileau’ or `professor.’ I’m not used to first names for other people.”