Penric's Demon by Lois McMaster Bujold Page A

important books go to the senior dedicats.”
    “Still, I’d think you’d learn a lot, doing that. Do you ever make up the blocks of wood to print many copies? I’ve heard they do that in Martensbridge.”
    “Do I look like a woodcarver?” He wriggled his inky hand. “Though that work, and the pay for it, also goes to the seniors.”
    “You are a dedicat?” Pen hazarded. The scribe wore no braids or badges, just ordinary town dress of tunic and trousers. “Lay, or Temple-sworn?”
    He stretched his shoulders and grimaced. “Sworn. I mean to make acolyte soon, if all the places don’t go to those who brought richer dowries.”
    One of the several routes into the Bastard’s Order, Pen had heard, was for the families of children born out of wedlock to dedicate them to the Temple, together with a portion for their keep. That is, if the families were well-off. Poor foundlings were left more anonymously, and cheaply, at the orphanages. Not liking to ask for clarification, lest this be a sore issue for the fellow, Pen said instead, “At least it’s indoor work. Not like herding cows.”
    The man smiled sourly. “You a cowherd, country boy?”
    “At need,” Pen confessed. The scribe’s tone made it sound a low task, rather than the occasional outdoor holiday Pen had found it, but then, it hadn’t been Pen’s daily portion without relief. “And haying,” he added. “Everyone turns out for the harvest, high or low.”
    The hunting in the mountains had been a happier chore. He’d had good luck with wild sheep, often able to take one down with a single arrow, not to mention being most nimble at retrieving carcasses from awkward slopes and ledges, a task to which his servants had cheered him on with suspicious enthusiasm. It was the one activity that had reconciled Pen to the god naturally apportioned to his age and sex. The Son of Autumn’s rule over comradeship-in-arms had less appeal, if Drovo and his friends had been anything to go by.
    “Cowherds. Why?” the fellow muttered, and dipped his quill again, incurious of an answer.
    An older woman entered, carrying a stack of books. An acolyte’s looped braid hung on the shoulder of proper white Temple robes, and a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles swung by a ribbon around her neck. Martensbridge was noted for its glasswork; perhaps ordinary people could afford such rich aids here? Certainly this must be the librarian. She stopped and stared at Pen, more interested than hostile. “And who are you?”
    He ducked his head. “Penric kin Jurald, ma’am. I’m a . . . visitor.” Because that sounded better than prisoner . “Learned Tigney said I might go about the house.”
    Her brows rose in surprise at the divine’s name. “Really.”
    Pen couldn’t tell from her tone if she thought that good or bad, but he forged on. “I was wondering if you had any books on sorcery or demons. Practical ones,” he added prudently, lest he be gifted with some thick tome in a high and soporific style. He didn’t see how the subject could be made boring, but he’d read—well, tried to read—some theological works from Learned Lurenz’s shelves, and didn’t underestimate the determined drabness of Temple scholars.
    She took a step back, her head coming up. “Such books are restricted to those of the rank of divine and above. I’m afraid, young man, you have not yet earned the braids for them.”
    “But you must have such books, yes?” Somewhere . He’d seen none in his survey of the shelves.
    Her glance went to a tall wardrobe set against the far wall. “Locked up, certainly. Or they would quickly become the most stolen of our treasures.”
    Pen stared with fresh interest at the capacious cabinet, wondering how many books it might hold. “If a divine said it was all right, would it be all right?” Could, or would, Tigney give permission?
    “Such authorizations are possible, yes, but there must be need. What do you imagine your need to be?” She smiled at him