She passed the needle and thread sign and set down her bag at the next door. The building was long and wide, with a small second story perhaps half the size of the ground floor; it was larger than its neighbors on either side, but looked worn-out from not having been painted recently. She could hear a clacking sound somewhere nearby.
Telaine knocked, ignoring the stares from the people who passed her. It might have been a more aggressive knock than necessary, but she was tired and irritable and still jumpy from her encounter with those men. She wasn’t used to being the focus of male aggression and it made her feel helpless, which made her angry and inclined to let the Princess come over haughty and disdainful at them. That was definitely not what she was here for.
The knob turned, and a girl opened the door, making the noise swell. She might have been eleven or twelve, but she was tall for her age. Her brown hair was covered by a kerchief and she wore a wraparound apron with long sleeves. “Happen I can help you?” she said in a fluting voice.
“I’d like to see Mistress Weaver,” Telaine said, trying to speak over the sound without shouting.
“Come in,” the girl said. “Are you Miss Bricker?”
“I am. Is Mistress Weaver in?”
“She is,” called a voice from far inside the room.
Telaine stepped inside. The room took up most of the ground floor of the building. Brightly colored skeins of yarn hung on every wall, giving the room a festive, exotic appearance. Two spinning wheels stood near the front door, next to baskets full of wads of puffy grayish wool. Telaine had never seen wool in its natural state before, and she wished she dared pick one up to see how it felt.
One of the spinning wheels was being used by a beautiful young woman who deliberately paid no attention to Telaine. Beyond this was an enormous loom like a wooden mantis, its many limbs jerking and shifting in a peculiar rhythm, that took up nearly half the room. It clattered and thumped away without pause as the half-visible woman operating it said, in a voice pitched to carry over its noise, “I’m Mistress Weaver. I take it you’re my niece?”
“I am, mi—Aunt,” Telaine said, swallowing “milady” just in time.
“Sit there. I’ll be with you shortly.” The clattering and thumping of the loom continued, loud enough to ring in Telaine’s ears. It was a wonder none of the three were deaf. Telaine sat on the stool Mistress Weaver had indicated. The young girl, hesitating between Telaine and her mistress, settled at the second spinning wheel and began to work the pedal.
Telaine watched them both spin. The girl seemed to be a true novice; how good the young woman was, Telaine didn’t know, but she never seemed to stop and only paused briefly to pick up a new wad of wool and somehow splice it into the old one. Telaine observed the mechanism of the spinning wheel. A Device could do the work of the pedal, ease the strain on the leg. I wonder if you could do anything about that pause to put the two pieces of wool together? Probably not, that looks finicky. But it would be simple to set up a Device to do the up-and-down motion, or better yet, create a wheel that runs by itself…
“Come with me,” Mistress Weaver said. The loom went silent, and so did the spinning wheels as the two girls stopped to watch. “Back to work, girls. And, Alys, I want you to go stir the dyeing pot and make sure the fire’s fed up nice.”
Mistress Weaver came out from behind the loom and regarded Telaine with a look that said she thought Telaine was wasting her time. She was a tall woman in her early thirties, with tightly pinned black hair, fierce blue eyes, and a stern mouth. She didn’t look like someone who laughed often. The shape of her face reminded Telaine of someone, though she couldn’t remember who. It would come to her eventually.
“Upstairs,” she said, and Telaine followed her down a narrow hall to an even narrower stairway with no handrail and no light. Telaine tried not to walk so closely she’d trip over Mistress Weaver’s skirts, but the dimness, and the cramped stairwell, made her nervous. Going downstairs in the dark could be dangerous.
The second floor wasn’t more than a hallway, narrow and dim, with three doors opening off it. Mistress Weaver went to the door at the far end and opened it. “I haven’t had time to spare cleaning it up,” she said as Telaine goggled at the room, which had no carpet and a small window overlooking the street.
It was not a large room. It contained a bed, and a chest at the foot of the bed, and a small table with a cracked mirror over it. It also contained a hat stand, a stack of boxes labeled WINTERSMEET, a piece of garden statuary that might once have been a bear cub, a pile of fur coats covering the bed, a straw hat that was not on the hat stand, a framed landscape in oils, and a woven belt coiled on the floor like a snake. Telaine checked twice in case it actually was a snake. She glanced at Mistress Weaver. There was a definite look of pleasure in the woman’s eyes. “You can store whatever you won’t use in the room next door,” she said.
“How long did it take you to haul everything in here?” Telaine asked, following a hunch. The look of pleasure was replaced with one of caution.
“don’t know what you mean. Happen things pile up, over time. Not too good to do a little honest work, are you?”
She turned, and Telaine asked, feeling somewhat desperate, “You do know why I’m here, don’t you?”
“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 s
afe 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.
Agent of the Crown Page 5