Agent of the Crown (7 page)

“Best not speak of that with little ears in
the house. Later.” She stumped off down the stairs.

Telaine wanted to collapse on the bed, but
that would have meant moving the boxes out of the way and pushing
the furs to the ground. Besides, there was no sheet on the bed, and
the mattress looked dusty. Wasn’t there something you did with
mattresses, to clean them? She vaguely remembered hers were removed
once a year, but were always back by bedtime.

She dropped her bag on the floor and decided
to take a look next door. That room was even more cluttered than
hers, filled with what looked like fifty years of detritus. There
was barely room for what was already in it; she couldn’t imagine
how she’d fit in the things Mistress Weaver had stowed in hers.
Telaine sighed and began shifting piles of old newspapers—not even
Longbourne newspapers!
was
there a Longbourne newspaper?—to
rest on a vast wooden sea chest.

When Mistress Weaver came to tell her supper
was ready, Telaine had moved all the useless items into the junk
room and was still able to close its door. She’d thought about
dragging the mattress outside, but decided she didn’t know what to
do with it, so she’d settled for spreading a worn but soft blanket
she’d found in the chest over it. Her belongings were stowed, with
her Deviser’s kit under her clothes, and her lock picks hidden
under a loose floorboard beneath the bed. She’d even found the
kitchen and got water to wipe down all the surfaces. It was the
first cleaning she’d ever done and she was proud of it, even if her
attempt to wash the filthy window hadn’t done more than make a
streaky mess.

Mistress Weaver surveyed the room. She ran
her finger over the top of the mirror and displayed it, gray with
dust. “Happen you missed a spot?” she said. Telaine gritted her
teeth.

“I’d like to clean the mattress, but I don’t
think I can manage it,” she said.

“Get it hauled downstairs, I’ll show you. But
supper first.”

Telaine followed her back to the kitchen,
where thick stoneware bowls painted red and white, matching mugs,
and a couple of large spoons lay on the battered pine table.
Mistress Weaver took a bowl and helped herself from a pot bubbling
over the fire. “We eat stew or soup, most nights, I ain’t got time
for anything fancier. Don’t expect me to wait on you,
milady
.”

“My name is Lainie. No miladys here.” Telaine
scooped up a serving of thick, brown gravy with bits
of…something…floating in it. It smelled like beef and, to her
rumbling stomach, it also smelled divine. She set her bowl down and
accepted a mug of icy cold water that sent shivers down her arms
and legs. The mysterious bits were root vegetables. She took a
small bite; it was too hot, so she waved her spoon until she saw
Mistress Weaver looking at her with disdain. She stirred the stew,
hoping the heat would dissipate. “Is it safe to talk?” she
asked.

Mistress Weaver shrugged. “Depends on how
worried you are. Nobody else is in the house, certain sure.”

Telaine laid her spoon down. “Mistress
Weaver, have I done something to offend you? I met some men over at
the forge who seemed sure I wasn’t welcome here.”

Mistress Weaver waved her hand as if brushing
away her words. “Don’t much like having my ways interrupted,” she
said. “I do things my way and happen I ain’t so good at what’s
new.” But her mouth continued in that hard line.

“All I was told was to come to Longbourne and
pretend to be your niece,” Telaine continued. “What story did you
give for my…visit?”

“Told ’em you’d had some trouble in the city
and needed to get away for a spell.” Mistress Weaver filled her
mouth with stew. “You’re my half-brother’s daughter who’s been
raised by her uncle, your mother’s brother. I’m told that’s as near
truth as can be.”

“It is.” Telaine’s parents had died before
she was eight, and she’d grown up with the North family. “Shall I
call you Aunt Agatha?”

“You can start by dropping the shall’s and
may’s, ’less you want to seem stuck up. And Aunt Weaver suits me
fine.”

“Yes, Aunt Weaver.” She’d eaten her fill of
stew and now pushed back her chair from the table. “What do I do
about the mattress?”

“Right. Go fetch it.”

Telaine went up the stairs and heaved the
mattress off the frame. It was thin, but awkwardly bulky, and shed
a fine shower of dust when she picked it up. She carried it down
the stairs, every minute expecting to miss her step and go
plummeting to the bottom.
At least I’d fall on something
soft.
Getting it through the doorways was almost impossible;
whatever part she didn’t have her hands on flopped over and caught
on things.

She dragged it through the kitchen and out
the back door, which Aunt Weaver held open for her. That was more
help than Telaine had expected from her, but with the mattress
sagging in her arms, she wasn’t inclined to be overly grateful.
“Hold a bit,” Aunt Weaver said, and opened the door of a shed at
the edge of a small yard, though like no yard Telaine had ever seen
before.

Instead of grass, there was packed earth;
tall weeds grew along the edges of the house and the two sheds.
Both sheds looked like they wanted to fall down. The larger one,
the one Aunt Weaver had opened, had a steep roof matching the
house, shingled in blue slate, and its coat of red paint needed
touching up. The smaller shed looked more like a cupboard, narrow
and unpainted, and leaned slightly to the left. Telaine shifted the
mattress over her shoulder and hoped Aunt Weaver would finish her
business, whatever it was, soon, because she was about to drop the
thing.

A large fire was built up in the center of
the yard, over which hung an enormous stainless steel pot filled
with a dark liquid. Its presence in Aunt Weaver’s backyard
surprised Telaine. The Devices responsible for the process that
made the metal were new, and the products they made were expensive.
Aunt Weaver must be more prosperous than her home suggested to be
able to afford such a thing.

Near the fire stood a tall pair of metal
poles with crosspieces at the top that made the shape of a T,
connected by three thick wires. Hanks of wool dyed a rich amber
brown hung over the wires, but Aunt Weaver removed them and took
them inside the shed. “Hang it up there,” she said over her
shoulder. Telaine heaved the mattress over the wires and looked at
it, dangling limply off the ground.

Aunt Weaver returned with a contraption that
had a wooden handle with a couple of thick iron wires emerging from
it. The wires intertwined to make a flattened pattern about a foot
wide like interlocking hearts. “You beat it,” she said, thwacking
the mattress by way of demonstration, then handed the thing to
Telaine. She shoved a lid over the pot of brown dye, then heaved it
off the fire to sit on the ground. “Hard.” She turned and went back
into the kitchen.

Telaine gingerly patted the mattress with the
beating tool. A tiny puff of dust arose. She struck it harder and
was rewarded with a larger puff. Warming to her work, she slammed
the flat tool into the mattress again and again.
That
was
for “Aunt” Weaver.
That
was for those awful men at the
forge.
That
was for having to move all that junk out of her
room.
That
was for being away from home and
that
was
for having to beat dust out of her bedding before she could go to
sleep even though she was weary and sore and wanted the day to
end—

“I thought, happen you want a hand with that,
but seems you’re doing well enough,” said someone behind her. It
was the blacksmith, standing at the corner of the house and
appraising her work with his steady gaze. Telaine’s shoulder and
arm ached. She loosened her grip on the handle. “I don’t know if
I’m doing this right,” she admitted.

He approached her and held out his hand. She
surrendered the tool. “Step back a bit,” he said, and began
whacking the mattress with a smooth rhythm in a pattern that went
from top to bottom. Dust flew. No wonder Aunt Weaver had moved the
freshly-dyed yarn. “Looks like this mattress hasn’t seen use in
years,” he added.

“It’s from Aunt’s spare room, I think,”
Telaine said, and coughed before stepping back farther. “I’ve about
got the room cleaned up.”

“And I’ve about got this finished,” he said.
He gave the mattress a few more whacks and handed her the tool.
“Came to see how you’re settling,” he said. “Those fellows have an
odd sense of humor, but they’re harmless.”

“I’m sure they are,” Telaine said, thinking,
If that’s harmless, I don’t want to be around for
violent.

He stepped forward and held out his hand.
“Ben Garrett,” he said.

She switched the tool to her left hand and
took his with her right. “Lainie Bricker, but you know that
already.” His hand was callused but perfectly clean. She wouldn’t
have guessed his occupation if she hadn’t seen him at the
forge.

“Most likely the whole town knows it. Not
much excitement around here.”

“I don’t know if I qualify as excitement. I’m
looking for a quiet retreat.”

“You’re new and you’re a Deviser. Never had
one in Longbourne before.” He paused, then said with some
hesitation, “You ought be prepared for people to stare at you.”

“Thanks for the warning.” She tugged the
mattress down and felt him supporting the far side. “Thanks, but I
can manage,” she said. The idea of letting a strange man haul her
mattress into her bedroom made her uncomfortable. Not to mention
inviting someone into a house not her own.

He helped her arrange it in a less awkward
position and said, “Good night, Miss Bricker.”

“Good night, Mister Garrett. And thank you
again.”

He nodded and went back around the corner of
the house toward the street. Telaine wrangled the mattress back
inside and put it on the bed frame. No dust arose when she dropped
it. Now, how did one make up a bed? She’d seen sheets and blankets
in the chest when she stowed away her clothes.

Tucking the sheet over the mattress proved
challenging; when she tucked one corner in, another came loose. She
finally managed to get the sheet in place and lay another one, and
a blanket, atop it. Still no pillow. She’d have to get used to
doing without.

Telaine was accustomed to watching the sun
set, but up here the sun disappeared behind the mountains without
fuss, leaving behind a diffused evening light. She opened her
window, pushed aside the curtains, and leaned out. Although there
were lights in the buildings along the street, they were so few by
comparison to the bright lanterns of Aurilien that burned all night
that she was able to watch the stars come out.

Here in the mountains she felt closer to the
sky, close enough to reach out and pluck one of those brilliant
specks of light from the black velvet it was pinned to. Her anger
and frustration drained away. Yes, this was a difficult mission,
and she hadn’t been trained for anything like it. She didn’t know
how to get into the Baron’s home—she barely knew what she was
looking for. But it was impossible to worry about those problems
when she looked at the encircling mountains that held up the sky,
with Mount Ehuren’s upper slopes still gilded by the setting sun.
It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

“Don’t go falling out,” Aunt Weaver said, and
Telaine had to catch herself on the window ledge. The woman carried
a lamp that glowed dimly but enough to illuminate the room. “Forgot
to leave this for you,” she grunted, and Telaine wondered if that
might be an apology—a watered-down, reluctant apology, but Telaine
would take whatever was offered.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Say ‘thanks’ instead,” Aunt Weaver said.
“You want to not stand out, happen you tone down your fancy
language.”

“It will come, I think—I mean, happen I’ll
make do.”

Aunt Weaver sniffed. “Don’t make fun.”

“I wasn’t—never mind. Thank y—thanks for
giving me a place to stay.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” she said, and
turned to go.

“Aunt Weaver,” Telaine called, and the woman
stopped without turning around. “Is there anything else I can do to
fit in?”

The woman still didn’t turn around. “Don’t
know why you’d want to,” she said, and went on down the hall.

Telaine closed the window and the curtains,
then shut the door. Good point. Why did it matter if she fit in?
What mattered was drawing the Baron’s attention and getting into
his house, not making friends. But she was cold inside, realizing
she didn’t have a single friend in this town, not even the
pseudo-friends the Princess had, and that nobody but the blacksmith
even acted friendly. She felt alone for the first time in her
entire life.

She examined the lamp. It was not Device
powered, but ran on—ouch—oil. She sucked her burned finger.
Stop
making assumptions
. She experimented with a knob on the lamp’s
base and learned how to turn the flame higher and lower.

As she gazed at the lamp, wondering how she
might convert it to a Device, the day’s exertions caught up with
her. She barely managed to change into her nightgown and turn off
the lamp before sinking into a deep, troubled sleep.

The first
sunlight creeping over her windowsill woke Telaine the next
morning. Her back hurt, her legs ached, her arms felt as if she’d
done nothing but lift rocks for ten hours, and her feet were sore
in a way that said they’d be even sorer once she tried to use them.
She had no idea how poorly prepared she was for physical labor. She
sat up and realized there was a part of her body that desperately
needed to be relieved of its burden. Where could the facilities
be?

She got out of bed and pattered down the
stairs in her bare feet, hoping not to be seen, but unable to wait
long enough to dress. The great room downstairs with the loom. A
tiny formal drawing room, full to bursting with a couple of
uncomfortable chairs and a table with chipped legs. The kitchen,
dominated by the black iron stove. A store room filled with bolts
of woven cloth. No toilet. There had to be a toilet somewhere.
Every home needed one. You couldn’t—or could you? She’d seen a
chamber pot under her bed, but it was old and dusty and looked
antique. That left…