The sniff Richard gets in reply is the definition of derisive, twice underlined by the pre-existing heavy shadow of the man's brow and the wrinkles of a frown. It would be easy (natural, even) to misconstrue the meaning as 'Ah the Black Chantry, blasphemers and heretics to the one.'

Only—

"Not reading those you won't. No,"—is a revision made on the move as he steps past the boundary of the would-be barricade and moves closer to the stack in question. Bending, he extracts a particularly dusty volume from it—"This one, Tavoularis, might have a thing or two worth saying. The rest of these are rubbish. Especially these."

Tap, tap, tap, he drums his fingers across a series of gilt spines, one fingertip allocated per Orlesian bookbinder stamp.