Penric's Demon by Lois McMaster Bujold Page B

with the ironic air of a woman long experienced in resisting the blandishments of her juniors angling for forbidden treats. Well, he’d always been able to get around the Jurald Court cooks . . .
    “Ah, you see, I lately contracted a demon of my own, from a Temple sorceress who died on the road at Greenwell. It was an accident, truly it was, but if Desdemona and I are going to be stuck with each other, I think I’d better know more about what I’m doing than I do. Which is almost nothing, so anything at all you could lend me would be a start.” He smiled his most hopeful smile at her, trying for maximum sunniness. Trustworthiness, too; he should definitely try to look trustworthy.
    Evidently, he failed, for she took a hastier step backward, her hand going to her throat. She frowned at him for a long, long moment. “If that is a jape, young man, I will have your hide for binding leather. Wait here.” She set down her armload of books on the table and hurried out again.
    Pen’s glance went again to the now-riveting cabinet, and he wondered if she could possibly mean that threat literally. A librarian of the demon-god, after all . . .
    The quill had stopped scratching, and Pen turned to find the dedicat-scribe staring at him as if he’d sprouted antlers from his head. “How did you come by a demon?” he asked, astonished.
    Getting practiced by now, Pen recited the short tale, summing the disaster in as few sentences as he could make sound coherent. Fairly coherent.
    The scribe’s wide eyes narrowed. “You know, none below the rank of divine are allowed to receive a Temple demon, and the gift of its sorcery. It’s considered a high and rare accomplishment. Men compete just for a place in line, studying and preparing, then wait for years .”
    Pen scratched his head. “There must be other accidents, from time to time. I mean, you can’t control the time or place of a person’s death.” Well . . . there was one sure way that sprang to Pen’s mind, but he’d heard no rumors of the Temple doing that .
    Lips compressed, the scribe just shook his head.
    The librarian returned with Learned Tigney in tow. Pen brightened.
    “Oh, sir! May I be permitted to read the books here?” He gestured to the locked cabinet. “You certainly can’t say I don’t have need .”
    Tigney sighed. “Lord Penric, I’ve only just begun to unpack the Learned Ruchia’s cases. I’ve no idea yet what needs I am going to find in this tangle.” He eyed Pen, who returned his best starving-boy look. The divine’s expression did not so much soften, as grow shrewd. “But, while you wait, you might certainly have leave to read the books from the other shelves, here in this room when it is open. That would keep you occupied for a time, I should think.”
    And feet fastened in one place, too, Pen fancied was the unspoken cap to that. But Tigney hadn’t, actually, said No, never . “Indeed, sir.” He tried to project dutiful resignation, pending a rematch. He realized he still had the Cedonian chronicle in his hand, and lowered his voice, showing the book to Tigney.
    “When I opened this book, I found I could read it. Is that . . . usual?”
    Tigney’s lips quirked up. “If you are a Cedonian, I suppose.”
    Pen mustered a feeble smile at the heavy humor. Better than anger or thunderous forbiddings, certainly. “But I’m not. I had not a word of it until, well, just now.”
    His witticism duly rewarded, Tigney granted Pen a short nod of reassurance. “Yes, it’s usual. If any demon serves a master long enough, it will take up an imprint of its rider’s mother tongue. And pass it along, in due course. Ruchia had half-a-dozen such languages at her command, all spoken as a native. Very useful to her, and to the Temple.”
    “Was she a great scholar, then?”
    Tigney hesitated. “Not as such.” He eyed Pen a moment more. “You were very quick to absorb it, though. It more often requires some weeks or months for such