"Well, for what it's worth, I suspect Thornbury was drunk for most of his career. I have no evidence for this, but the theory explains a great deal."
That sound again—low, rough, bitten off at the end. "You are not what I expected, Verity Dunmore."
She tucked her journal into her pocket accepting that this conversation had moved well past the point where taking notes would be appropriate.
"What did you expect?" It was her turn to ask it of him.
He shifted the torch from one hand to the other, flame tilting.
"Someone more contained," he said finally. "Nine years at the Royal Archive. Specialist in early border period correspondence. Author of three published analyses of treaty language evolution." He recited the facts without inflection, but the fact that he had memorized them was its own kind of statement. "I expected someone who would arrive, do their work quietly, and leave. I did not expect someone who would find my archive within three hours of arrival and be taking notes in the dark when I came to fetch her."
"To be fair, I had a candle."
They stood there for a moment, in a room full of centuries-old documents and dust, and Verity had the peculiar sensation that something was being decided. Not by her, but not entirely by him either.
"You will have access to the archives," the warchief said finally. "But you will not remove documents from these rooms without permission. You will not copy anything without permission. And you will submit a weekly report of your activities to me directly."
"That seems reasonable." Verity paused. "Though I would like to request one addition to the terms."
His eyes narrowed. "What's that?"
"I would like permission to ask questions."
The warchief studied her. The torchlight shifted as he adjusted his grip on it, and shadows moved across his face like clouds across a mountain.
"You wish to ask questions," he repeated.
"Yes."
"Of me."
"If you're willing. Or of someone else, if you prefer. The documents will tell me what happened. They won't always tell me why, or what context I'm missing. An archivist without context makes errors. I would prefer not to make errors."
Verity could hear her own pulse beating in her ears.
"You may ask questions," the warchief said. "I will answer the ones I choose to answer. The others, you will accept as unanswered and not ask again."
"Agreed."
"You are very quick to agree to terms that limit you."
"The alternative is no questions at all. I prefer limited access to none." She tilted her head. "Besides, the questions you refuse to answer will tell me something too. Silence is its own kind of data."
His jaw tightened, and one hand closed slowly around the base of the torch.
"You are dangerous," he said quietly.
"I am an archivist."
He held her gaze, then turned toward the door, torch held high.
"Come. It is late. The kitchen is still serving."
"I ate the bread. It was very good."
"But it is not dinner." He paused at the threshold, looking back at her over one massive shoulder. "You will need your strength. The work you propose to do here is not small, and I do not intend to make it easy for you."
"I would not expect you to."
