Rock of Ages by Walter Jon Williams

literally, microscopic. There was a device in the lid of the scroll case that enabled one to read it.
    Roman felt his heart swelling with pride as he laid the scroll out on a table. “This is the culmination of years of research,” he said. “A kind of hobby of mine.”
    This was Roman’s Special Project. Many long hours in the composition, he hoped it would prove decisive in this business of marriage. Reminding of the awesome weight and majesty of his ancestors might inspire Maijstral to prove worthy of them.
    The itch burned in the center of Roman’s back. Inwardly he snarled in annoyance.
    Maijstral looked at the endless lines of tiny print in bewilderment. His trousers were unlaced and he had to hold them up with one hand. “There’s certainly a lot here,” he said.
    “I have taken the liberty of tracing the history of the Maijstral family,” Roman said.
    Maijstral’s ears cocked forward. “Really? My family?”
    “Indeed, sir. You will observe—”
    “Why not your own family?” Maijstral asked. Roman’s ears flicked in annoyance. The itch brought a growl to his lips. “My family’s history has already been very well documented, sir,” he said. Like most Khosali, his ancestry could be traced many thousands of years past the Khosali conquest of Earth . . . though, also like most Khosali, he was too polite to mention it.
    “If you will observe, sir,” Roman began, and deployed the reading mechanism, “I have made some rather interesting discoveries. Your ancestors are far more distinguished than either of us had any reason to suspect.”
    “Yes? That Crusader fellow you always talk about—you confirmed him?”
    “Jean Parisot de La Valette,” Roman said. “Indisputably. My library researches took me, last night, to Rome, where I had the honor of personally inspecting the records of the Knights of St. John. I found undisputable confirmation, which you will observe . . .” He placed the reader. “Here.”
    “Most interesting.” Maijstral manipulated the reader with one hand and hitched up his pants with the other. “The wrong side of the blanket, of course,” he noted. “Typical of my family, I suppose.”
    Roman’s diaphragm throbbed. He wished Maijstral wouldn’t disparage his ancestors in that fashion.
    One of Roman’s hands crept around behind his back and covertly began to scratch. No good—Khosali spines are somewhat less flexible than those of humans, and he didn’t come anywhere near the itch.
    “You will also observe Edmund Beaufort I, Earl and Marquess of Dorset,” Roman said. “His fourth son married a Matilda of Denmark, who was descended from Henry the Lion. You are thus a descendant not only of the Welfs, but Frederick Barbarossa, the Plantagenets, the Tudors, and all the ruling houses of Europe.”
    “You don’t say,” Maijstral murmured.
    “And on the Asian side,” scratching furiously, “there is Altan Khan and the Vietnamese emperor Gia-Long, not to mention—”
    Maijstral was peering at the top of the list. “Who’s this Wotan person?” he asked. “He seems to be right at the head of the list, but he doesn’t have any dates.”
    “Ah.” Roman’s diaphragm pulsed again, and he gave up the scratching. “Allow me to explain, sir.”
    *
    “Thank you, Roman,” Maijstral said. “It is a wonderful treasure.”
    “Thank you, sir.”
    “It must have taken you many hours. I’m impressed, as always, by your dedication.”
    Roman’s black fur rippled with pride. A few little tufts drifted toward the floor. “Thank you,” he said. “It was a privilege to work on such a project.”
    “My trousers,” Maijstral said, and handed over his pants. Roman hung them in the closet and retrieved Maijstral’s dressing gown. Maijstral shrugged into the gown and sealed it.
    “That will be all, Roman, I think,” Maijstral said.
    “Very good, sir. Shall I leave the genealogy on the table?”
    “Please do. I may wish to look at it.”
    “Very good,