Poetic Justice by Alicia Rasley Read Free Book Online Page B

you got there too late."
    John regarded his old friend with dawning approval. "There's hope for you yet, Michael." But he could tell Devlyn was already regretting the suggestion. "Oh, I see. You meant that I might have done it, not that you would ever do such a thing. You know, you should appreciate me better. You might have to commit your own sins, were you not able to participate vicariously in mine."
    "You have plenty to spare, I think," Devlyn replied. "So why didn't you sell it to the Vatican? Surely if the thought occurred to me, it occurred to you."
    John almost said something foolish and sentimental, that the money didn't matter, that he wanted the Jerusalem to himself at least for the length of his voyage. But no one would believe that of the hard-headed businessman John Dryden. "Oh, I've my reputation to consider. And it is such a fine book. The Vatican would have buried it, you see. Not destroyed it—Alavieri would never have allowed that—but hidden it away in some corner of the library. They couldn't acknowledge its existence, you see, or they'd be acknowledging its authors. And the Coptics have been considered heretics since the fifth century. They practice monophysitism, you know."
    Devlyn nodded gravely, then had to ask, "Some shocking ritual, I suppose?"
    John laughed. "No. Oh, it's shocking enough to the pope, I suppose, but the rest of us wouldn't understand the fuss. Something about Christ having only one nature, not two, human and divine."
    Devlyn agreed that this must be condemned in the strongest terms, perhaps forgetting that his own Anglicanism had long been considered heretical by the pope. "Prinny apparently hasn't any difficulty with the heresy?"
    "Oh, no. He's looking to build a rare-book library, and, if I know him, he will probably have a special display for heretics. It's a beautiful book, hardly aged at all. The binding is camel skin. Most Copts were Egyptian, you know." Absently, he trailed his fingers on the stone wall, feeling instead the velvety texture of the book. "And gold leaf as fine as a hummingbird feather, vines all over the front, worth every bit of trouble."
    He broke off, embarrassed, knowing Devlyn could only wonder at his enthusiasm. But he tried to explain in a way Devlyn, a former soldier, might understand. "It's always an adventure, you see, because manuscripts are an odd trade. The buyers are few but intense, and intensely jealous. Alavieri was generous enough in defeat, or so I thought. But he had a trio of banditti waiting for me at the dock."
    "What happened?"
    "Oh, I was half-expecting it. My mare got away, and alerted my crew, and we made short work of them."
    Devlyn was laughing, forgetting their adult reserve enough to lapse into a long-abandoned nickname. "Jack, you never fail to get into scrapes. Only you could turn some dusty old book into an occasion for pillage and derring-do."
    Some dusty old book. John let that go by. Devlyn was an intelligent man, well-read, with a sure if conventional taste in art. He was also John's oldest friend, and probably knew him best. They had begun running together at five or so, as soon as John was old enough to escape the confines of the village and make his way up the hill to the Keep. But Devlyn, no doubt, understood this passion for old books less than John's earlier passions for adventure and art. A book is for reading, Devlyn said once, trying to puzzle this out, for conveying information. When it gets old and starts to fall apart, I'd buy a new edition so I'd have all the pages. But that's when you start wanting the book—when it's no longer usable.
    So John took a certain pleasure in retelling a few of his Alavieri adventures. No one who had encountered the Vatican curator could ever think of the rare books trade as anything but the height of intrigue.
    He didn't mention that moment, however, when Alavieri confessed his great misfortune of seeing and losing what he claimed was a work of Shakespeare. John was discreet by