Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  Emma took the tart from the oven-box and set it on the table to cool.

  “So you say,” Emma said. She shook her head and went to the cottage door. “I’ll see to the chickens before dark.”

  Cat watched the door close behind her and sighed. It wasn’t the first such disagreement they’d had, nor would it be the last. Emma didn’t like the thieving at all, but Cat felt the need to add to their finances.

  She looked around the cottage. Small though it was, it was comfortable and theirs.

  But she feared — no, knew — knew in her bones that it could disappear in an instant. Without the rents, without money for food, it was only the matter of a few coins between the comfortable life she and Emma knew and a return to the streets Cat grew up on.

  They had years to prepare for — years to ensure they had enough coin to keep themselves from want. She’d done the math enough in her head to know that what they’d taken from Roffe might keep them in some sort of state for the rest of their lives, but it wouldn’t be the state Cat preferred.

  She didn’t need luxury, she thought, though her time at Roffe’s manor had been luxurious enough and she would admit she liked it fine, but she did need the certainty she and Emma would be free from want.

  And what of my mechanicals?

  Cat made her way to the workbench that took up one full wall of the cottage.

  It would look cluttered to any observer, but the sort of clutter that had an odd organization to it. One could certainly imagine that the owner of such a bench could reach out without looking and put hand to any particular part in any particular pile at their whim.

  Cat sat down and took up her latest project. She’d begun working on clocks, as they were easy to come by and she wished to learn the gearing better. Few clockmakers would talk to her — they had their secrets and they’d share only with their apprentices, not random girls — and there were fewer texts on the subject. What few texts on mechanicals she’d been able to find lined the shelf above the workbench and they were well-thumbed even beyond the worn condition she’d got them in.

  She was reduced, it seemed, to working most of the bits out for herself.

  Two clocks lay before her on the bench, faces down and mechanisms exposed. One was a purchase and the other a device of her own design — as were the two other pairs on the workbench. Her design wasn’t a copy, not exactly, there was no learning in that. No, she found that if she studied a working example, then ideas would come to mind — for improvement or simply a different way to do things.

  She hadn’t perfected her own design yet — each of the three she’d made tended to run much faster or slower off-time than those she purchased — but she felt she was close.

  Her eyes followed the mechanisms of the two clocks, side-by-side, and she fell into a peaceful sort of trance as the springs unwound and the little gears moved in perfect regularity.

  Emma had no idea of the cost of these — either the clocks themselves or the parts Cat used for her own. Each of those parts was her own design, scribbled on paper with its shape and notes for the sizes and spacing of the gear teeth. Then she’d send the paper off to a craftsman who could work the brass or copper or steel as she required.

  Her hands reached to the side as she watched the mechanism, as though independently seeking some activity of their own. She took up a lock at random from a box of them and picks from their place nearby.

  For hours her fingers danced, setting and unsetting a lock, then taking up another, only setting the picks down to scribble some idea her eyes had found to improve her mechanism.

  She was oblivious, almost, to Emma’s return, to the girl’s bustling about the cottage and putting it to rights, to half a cooled tart placed beside her with a glass of milk, and even to the kiss Emma left on her cheek before climbing to the loft and their bed.

  Hours later, she came aware, eyes burning, fingers needing a stretch to work out the cramp, and stomach rumbling even louder than it had hours before when she’d lost herself in her work. She ate the tart, drank the milk set beside it, and made her own way up to the loft in darkness after quenching the workbench lamps — which she didn’t remember lighting.

  Emma was asleep, back to Cat’s empty side of the bed, so Cat kept as silent as she could as she stripped off her clothes and slid her nightgown over her head. She raised the blankets slowly and eased her way inside.

  The bed was small for the two of them, but so was the loft. They made a show of mentioning it from time to time at the inn and talking of having a larger made, or even two smaller, but never did. There were plenty enough families in the village who all shared a single bed, so none would truly remark on the two “sisters” doing so.

  She barely had time to close her eyes before Emma moved, rolling over and pressing herself against Cat.

  Cat smiled — that meant they were all right. Emma’d not have waited up for her if she were truly angry.

  “Satisfied yer baser urges, have you?” Emma whispered, her breath warm on Cat’s neck.

  Cat couldn’t help but grin. Emma always thought the mechanicals were like another lover for Cat, and she was not quite wrong, but she did understand — the urge to know, to understand, how the things worked, and to put something together that was both different and better, gnawed at her like an unsatisfied hunger.

  The things she’d seen in Roffe’s attic workspace, the mechanicals coming to market even now, the steam, if they could ever stop the bloody engines blowing up — all of it was like a vast new world opening before her, and Cat wanted part of it. She could see a picture in her head of a time when pipes like those to their cottage from the inn ran to every home, carrying both hot water and steam — for bathing and cleaning, sure, but what about for heat in the winter? What if one fire could send its heat to a dozen homes? Why, that would mean the work of a dozen men chopping wood or shoveling coal could be used elsewhere.

  And the mechanicals were just as important. Why, the little cleaning device from Roffe’s workspace, the one he’d destroyed when Cat got it working — what if there were one of those in every home, not just those rich enough to have it made by the single craftsman who kept the secret close? What if every woman in the village suddenly had the time she spent sweeping floors to herself, for … whatever she liked?

  Her mind began whirring again, like the clocks she’d been watching, but sped up a thousand times. There were a thousand, a million, tasks that could be eased … not only in the factories, but in homes as well …

  The tart!

  The tart Emma’d made — and the dozens like it made by Sarah at the inn for dinner — well, wasn’t slicing the apples for it just one of those tasks? Only a knife blade going up and down, wasn’t it? And a bit of a slide to push the apple into place after each stroke?

  She could almost see it — the gear would have to be thus for each slice to be the proper thickness, and the blade must move like this to move out of the way as the apple came back into place.

  Some sort of hopper to catch the slices — and another to hold several apples waiting for their turn. Could it peel them, as well? That would be a delicate bit, wouldn’t it? Perhaps a razor’s blade, but how to keep it from taking too much — a spring! Yes, a spring with just the right tension to pierce the skin, but not enough to cut off too much flesh … if I were to —

  Emma’s hand on her brow stilled the thoughts.

  “Sshhh,” the girl whispered. “I see yer mind spinnin’ like them gears.”

  She stroked softly and Cat’s thoughts stilled, then Emma squirmed in that particular way that seemed to erase Cat’s thoughts all entire.

  “Time enough fer them things tomorrow, yes, love?” Emma whispered, then pressed her lips to Cat’s.

  “Mmmm-hhmmm,” Cat agreed through the kiss.

  Afterward, Cat’s mind began to spin again, she couldn’t help it, but Emma pulled her close, stroked her forehead, and sang her whispered song.

  “Rhown ein golau gwan i'n gilydd, fy ngharia
d — Ar hyd y nos.”

  We'll put our weak light together, my love — All through the night.

  Cat fell asleep to the thought that together, their light was very bright indeed.

  Chapter 37

  Cat went off a week later.

  The horses were harnessed in the early morning as other travelers also took their leave of the inn to continue their journeys. Emma walked her to the cart and handed her up a bag of bread, cheese, and fruit.

  “Five days, you said?” Emma asked, careful again with her accent, as Brimhall was about in the courtyard to see that no traveler left without a hearty goodbye — or with any owing on his account.

  Cat hid a smile as a gentleman handed his lady into their coach, then turned to Brimhall and pressed a coin into his hand.

  “A fine place, you have here, innkeep,” the man said. “My wife insists we break our journey here from now on, with the ease of bathing.”

  Brimhall cut his eyes to Cat, but smiled widely and accepted the coin while tugging his forelock with his other hand.

  “Thank you, sir, and thank yer lady, if it’s no impropriety,” he said.

  Cat stored the bag under the cart’s bench and took up the reins.

  “Or more,” she said in answer to Emma’s question. “I’ll need time to … look about. And there’s a craftsman I wish to speak to about a trick he has with —”

  Emma nodded, but smiled. “Some piece of work I’m not like to understand,” she said. “Well, send word if you’re to be more than the five days, will you?”

  Cat nodded. She longed to wrap her arms around the girl and give her another proper goodbye, but they’d had to settle for accomplishing that in the cottage. It wouldn’t do for Brimhall or the travelers to see the “sisters” too affectionate with one another.

  Brimhall walked by and Cat caught his eye with a nod to the departing coach and a wink.

  The innkeep pocketed the coin and scowled. “Unnatural,” he muttered.

  Cat was nearly seven days in the city. She posted a note to Emma on the fourth day, when it was clear she wouldn’t be starting back soon, but received no reply. That wasn’t unusual — Emma could read Cat’s missive well enough, but she wasn’t practiced enough at writing to be comfortable doing so. The untidy scrawl was a bit out of character for the Orphaned Daughters, so she wrote rarely.

  The delay in Cat’s journey was twofold.

  First, there was the need to find a suitable target for her nighttime excursions. She’d promised Emma that she wouldn’t steal from the innocent, so not just any merchant would do.

  Second, the craftsman she wished to speak to was proving a bit canny. He answered some questions and not others — but seemed willing enough to do so later, so Cat kept returning to his shop, and then, later, to a nearby pub where she plied him with beer.

  “It’s not that the boy’s an idiot,” the man said over his cups on the last night Cat felt she could spend with him. She’d strike her target later and wished to be out of the city thereafter, “it’s only that why would anyone want to be a bloody priest?”

  Cat nodded in sympathy.

  Fairleigh Bryant’s son had no wish to follow his father into the trade and the sudden announcement, when Bryant had no other apprentice to take over his shop and work when he was gone, had shocked the man and made him worry about the future.

  “It’s enough t’make me wish I were Church instead o’ Catholic,” Bryant muttered. “I mean, there’ll be no …” He glanced at Cat. “Well, you know …”

  Cat nodded again. “It is a quandary you have, Master Bryant.”

  “Yer an understanding lass,” Bryant said. He sighed. “I could wish the boy’d meet a girl who’d make him understand what he’s givin’ up, if y’see?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t help you with that,” Cat said.

  Bryant had the good grace to flush red.

  “Apologies — not what I meant at all,” he said. He sighed again. “But it is a letdown, you know? No grandbabies to spoil? No one to take over the shop when I’m gone — I’m too old to take on a newcome apprentice.”

  “It is a shame,” Cat agreed.

  Bryant signaled for another mug and waited, silent, for the serving girl to bring it.

  “Those were some fine drawings you brung me,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master Bryant.”

  “A bit rough in the detail, but the descriptions were clear.”

  “I’m getting myself some finer paper,” Cat allowed. “I understand there’s a fellow in France who’s invented a sort of steel quill.”

  Bryant grunted and Cat could see his mind turning over the thought. “Like to see one of those.”

  “I plan to order one, perhaps I could show it to you when next we meet?”

  “You’re a clever girl,” Bryant said. “Cleverer than my Rob, for sure. Fine hand, even with the poor paper, and I’m curious to learn what you plan to do with the parts you’ve ordered.”

  “As I am curious to know your process for getting the parts so refined in so short a time,” Cat said.

  Bryant nodded. “No such thing as a girl apprentice.”

  “Nor have I the time for such a commitment, but it would be a shame for your processes to be lost with you.”

  “No plans to get myself lost too very soon.”

  They sparred some more, but in the end Cat thought they had an agreement of sorts. Bryant would begin sharing his secret processes with her and she would begin sharing what she made with him. She couldn’t, after all, produce and sell her own devices — word of that would certainly get back to Roffe. Bryant could manufacture and sell them as his own, something that did gall Cat a bit, but it would keep her and Emma safe — Bryant would no more tell his customers they’d been invented elsewhere than he would take on a girl for an apprentice.

  In return, Cat would get his secrets and satisfy, for a time, the never-ending itch she had to see her devices out in the world.

  She left Bryant to his drink, settling enough on the pubtender to cover anything else the craftsman might wish for himself that evening and stepped out into the night.

  She made a brief stop at her own inn to change her clothing, donning the shadowy gear of her rooftop running along with enough bits of the Flowergirl to give that impression, and slipped out the window.

  The run worked off some of her nervous energy and excitement at the thought of Bryant sharing his secrets. He’d promised her a sheaf of designs she could take with her, to be picked up in the morning on her way from town. If she could improve upon them, as they’d discussed, then there’d be more for her to examine in addition to her own work.

  She took a more roundabout route to her destination than was necessary, letting the effort and pleasure of dashing across the slate and tile work that excitement out of her so that she could concentrate on the very different task ahead.

  That task, the robbing, went almost easier than convincing Bryant to begin sharing his secrets with her.

  Cat prowled the seedier areas of the city for a time, identified a few likely bullyboys, then followed them as the Flowergirl while they went from stall to stall in the market, always coming away with a little bundle of coin — their take went to a particular tavern and a man at a back table, who never seemed to leave.

  She watched him for a time, nursing a cup of beer, until the place grew so rowdy that she knew the Flowergirl shouldn’t be there alone, then left to set up a watch post on the roof across the street.

  She never saw the man leave, so that meant he had rooms there.

  Not the big boss, then, but he’d have the market take for several days before that was sent for by his employer, and that would be enough to keep her and Emma for a time.

  Now she only had to determine which were his rooms, and where he kept the chest she knew must be there.

  It was late for most, but still early enough that the tavern’s custom was strong, so she looked for upstairs lights in a room, figuring the man would leave a
guard, and that guard would need a light, and any other residents would not seek their beds while the common room below was in full bellow.

  Window marked, she reached the tavern’s roof and set a light rope about the chimney, easing it down just to the level she needed so that it wouldn’t be visible to any in the alley below.

  She slid down headfirst, rope threaded through a hooped belt Clanton had given her, until she could peek in through the closed shutters. It was a warm night, so those closed shutters were another sign this would be the right room, for any resident abed this early would prefer to have what breeze there was.

  Right the first time, she noted, seeing the back of an obvious bullyboy in a chair facing the room’s door. The man sat slouched over, tossing a knife to stick into the floor then picking it up again, with a repetitive thunk-siss, of strike and removal from the wood flooring.

  She quickly greased the shutter hinges with pork fat, working it between the metal with a thin, dull blade. The guard’s knife-game covered the sound of that same thin blade slipping between the shutters and lifting the latch, the clack of the latch’s metal on wood being less than the next thunk of the thrown knife.

  Cat eyed the distance between window and chair, then eased herself back up out of sight. She turned right-side up and walked down the wall to the side of the window, flexed her knees in concert with the thunk-siss from inside the room, then pushed herself off the wall and to the side.

  She crossed the window’s sill just before the next thunk, her feet hit the floor with it, and she rolled toward the chair, coming up just as the guard, his knife embedded in the floor, turned in startlement at the sound of her arrival behind him.

  She came up from her roll driving hard, her gloved hand holding a roll of heavy lead, and caught the man just under the jaw and at an angle from right to left.

  “Wha —”

  The man staggered back a step and Cat brought her weighted hand back around to clip him below the right ear. She then caught him, as much as she was able as he was a large specimen, and eased him to the floor.