“You don’t actually know how to read.” She moved through her artistic filing system with practiced ease, aiming for the island of her desk. He started to speak, but she cut him off. “Oh, I’m certain you’re excellent at copying text. That’s what a scribe does. That’s all a scribe does. Just need a steady hand and the ability to use a pen. I’ll even grant you the benefit of the doubt and assume you might also be a wonderful illuminator. You have to have some artistic ability to accurately draw all the letters. You certainly have the eyes for it. But you can’t read.”

“Why do you say that?”

“The stool you were sitting on is a first-millennium artifact, an antique. It is one of the original twelve seats fashioned to furnish the Teshlor Guildhall when the knight’s order was first founded, immediately after the death of Nyphron in the year eight fifty. The knights gave it to me as a token of appreciation, and because I love old things. That one is believed to have belonged to none other than Amicus Killian.”

“Oh!” the man said, alarmed. “My apologies. I didn’t know it was so valuable.”

“Don’t worry. It’s lasted this long. It will suffer your buttocks just fine.”

“But . . .” The scribe appeared perplexed. “I don’t see how that suggests I can’t read.”

“I’m in the process of restoring it. There’s a sign next to that stool that reads wet paint. Your aforementioned buttocks have a wonderful pale smear.”

“Oh.”

“Although, I am curious.” Farilane sat down at her desk and planted her elbows on it. “As reading and writing are against imperial law, how is it you survived as a scribe?”

“I’ve been working abroad.”

“Where?”

“The Belgric Kingdom,” he said, then after a moment he added, “That’s the dwarven kingdom.”

She smiled. “Yes, I know. What were you scribing down there? I wasn’t aware the dwarfs were terribly keen on literature.”

“They aren’t, but there’s a small community of imperial writers in exile. I first worked on The Tale of Ibernus the Giant, a lovely story about a collar that refuses to unlock until the wearer is dead.” He paused and thought a moment. “Actually, it’s not all that lovely a story, now that I think of it. I also worked on Elquin.”

“Orintine Fallon’s poem?” Farilane sat up.

“You’ve heard of it?”

“It’s considered a literary masterpiece, and it’s not even done. Orintine Fallon is a genius. His theory that patterns in nature are reflected in society is . . . amazing.”

“True, but his habit of picking his teeth is revolting.”

She stood up. “You’ve met Orintine!”