Copper Cove

by Robert Dahlen

  “Saw what?” I said with feigned innocence.

  “The envelope.”

  “How’s your scone?”

  “Now who’s changing the subject?”

  “Try telling me that it’s not better than what they serve at the Pot Perfected.”

  Sophronia made a show of rolling her eyes and looking away as she ate her scone. I opened the envelope and scanned the note. “So,” she said in a low voice, “is your client angry with you?”

  “Not with me,” I said softly as I hid the note away. “With you, very much so.” I picked up a scone.

  “I’m used to it. How about Master Rostall?”

  I juggled my scone and glared at her. “Is there anything you don’t know about me?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  “I already have been.” I took a bite of my scone. “But at least I have a few secrets left.”

  “Such as the fact that your client is looking to see you tomorrow, same time, same place, but without any annoying reporters lurking about?”

  I somehow managed to swallow. “Well, you’re completely wrong.”

  Sophronia raised an eyebrow. “I am?”

  “It’s Thursday.” I winked and sipped my tea.

  Sophronia chuckled. “I was close. Did you see my article on Stanbury?”

  “I did.” I set my cup down. “Thank you for rebutting the Fellowship official. Genny deserved better.”

  “Did you know her?”

  “She helped me get started as a crafter, and I wasn’t the only one she assisted. Genny believed in that; she told me it was her way of repaying those who helped her.”

  “I’m truly sorry for your loss,” Sophronia said quietly.

  “Thank you.”

  “Tabitha...I have an idea I’d like to discuss with you.” She paused as I sipped my tea again. “I’ve been thinking about doing a story about independent crafters for the Courant. I’d like to travel along with you for a day or two to see what you do and how you do it.”

  “Me?” I asked, wondering if Sophronia would ever stop surprising me.

  “It would be fascinating for my readers.”

  “And it could be troublesome for me. The guilds might not appreciate giving an outsider such exposure.”

  “I'll use an alias for you in the article.”

  “Well…” I was still unsure. It would be nice if I could help get out the real story of what independent crafters have to endure, but what if the guilds realized I was the source?

  “I'll pay for breakfast tomorrow.” Sophronia smiled.

  I gave up. She had me. “Where shall we meet, then?” I said, trying to sound reluctant.

  “What works best for you?”

  I was going to say Henry’s Crossing again, but I knew there was always a chance that I could sleep past any appointed time. “Meet me at my flat,” I said. “Do you have a pen?”

  “Of course.” Sophronia pulled a pen and a piece of paper from her handbag. I wrote my address down and handed it and the pen to her. “Will eight o’clock be fine?” she asked.

  “It'll do.”

  Sophronia stood and wiped a spot of jam off her chin. “Marvelous!” she said as she smiled.

  I tried to fight the urge to smile back. She was quite pretty, even if she was inadvertently ruining my finances and my reputation. “I suppose,” I said.

  Sophronia bent down and patted Darjeeling. “Until tomorrow, Tabitha.”

  “Good day, Sophronia.”

  “Please do call me Sophie.” She smiled again as she left.

  As I finished my scone, I couldn't help but think that she was still going to use me to get to my client. If she tried, I would resist it. I needed to keep what trust he might still have in me to finish my commission and get my three hundred crowns. So, I had to try to keep Sophie at arm's length. Just let her get her story.

  The part of me that kept picturing Sophie’s smiling face and was looking forward to seeing her again? I did my damnedest to ignore it. I did not fancy her. Not in the slightest.

  “You fancy her, don’t you?” Neil jabbed a fork-speared sausage in my direction.

  “I certainly do not!” I did my best to sound offended.

  “This is going to be trouble.” Neil took a large bite from the sausage.

  “No, it won’t.”

  “You keep finding ways to get in trouble when you meet a potential paramour.”

  “Since when does that happen?” I snapped.

  Neil rolled his eyes. “Have you forgotten when that one construction worker left you stuck on that tower rooftop on your first date? They needed a fire company with a ladder to get you down!”

  “I could have made it down on my own if she hadn’t taken my boots.”

  “How did she get your boots?”

  “You really don’t want to know.”

  Neil sighed exaggeratedly. “Assuming you don't fancy this Sophie—”

  “Which I don't,” I pointed out.

  “Then why else are you doing this?”

  I sipped my ale as I pulled my thoughts together. “Because...you know about the misinformation that the guilds spread.”

  “About you?”

  “Yes, and about everyone in the same boat as me. About how independent crafters have no skills or training, how we endanger our clients, how our devices are dangerous. That’s a bloody load of nonsense, and they know it. I’m better trained than most of those guild members.”

  “And you believe that this Sophie is going to get that across in her article?” Neil said sharply.

  “I’m sure she will. You’ve read her articles, haven’t you?”

  “Why should I?” Neil sipped his ale. “The Courant’s elitist trash.”

  “Not Sophie’s stories! She’s helped people who were unfairly evicted or fired from their positions! She uncovered that scandal in the Commerce Office!” I was turning red, but I didn’t care. “She’s brilliant, Neil!”

  He chortled. “You do fancy her.”

  I rested my head in my hands. “Oh, shut up.”

  It was still somewhat early when I got home, so I returned to my workshop and my commission. I reviewed the blueprints I had been given, and again I wished I knew just what purpose would be served by what I was crafting. If I did, I could suggest improvements. Lacking that knowledge, all I could do was follow the blueprints down to the last detail as best as I could. I put on my goggles and went to work, starting with welding a pair of tabs to each frame.

  The sun was setting when I stopped to catch my breath. The frames were now complete, but the gears and lattice work were still to be done. I decided to save the gears for the next day, when there was more light and I would be awake, and start work on the lattice.

  I stood and stretched, and my eyes fell on the cabinet by the door, and the tarpaulin that covered the top. Under the fabric was something I’d been working on in what spare time I had. It was a secret; I had told no one, not even Neil, about it.

  That was why I was so eager to complete this commission. I wasn’t hurting too much for money; I had some saved, though I’d had to dip into that to cover expenses, and business was generally good. But the money I stood to make from this commission, after expenses, could let me purchase some pricey supplies for use in this secret project. I longed to return to it; if it was a success, I could sell the patent and never have to work again. But to finish it, I needed the pricey supplies, and to buy those I needed the money from this commission. I sighed and returned to my work.

  It was very late once again when I finished for the night. I dragged myself and Darjeeling downstairs to my flat and fell into bed as soon as my boots were off. I had an alarm clock on the table by my bed, a gift from a crafter friend, and I saw that it was well past midnight. I told myself not to dream of Sophie as I closed my eyes.

  I woke up to the sound of Darjeeling chittering at me. “Hungry already?” I murmured as she pushed her forehead into my cheek. “Come on, let me sleep.”

&nb
sp; I heard the knocking on the door. I glanced at the clock and saw that it was almost eight. I jumped out of bed, cursing loudly about the fact that alarm clocks only work if you remember to set the blasted things. Darjeeling followed me to the door, watching quietly as I opened it.

  Sophie was there, wearing a lovely dark purple dress and a matching hat, looking as fresh and fetching as a bloody daisy. She smiled as she saw me. “Good morning, Tabitha!” she said. “I thought you’d have been ready by now.”

  “Ten minutes!” I shouted. “Here!” Sophie’s eyes widened as I handed her Darjeeling. “Keep busy!” I shut the door and hurried to the bath, peeling off my clothes from the night before as I went, hoping that letting Sophie play with Darjeeling would take her mind off my body odor.

  “I should be disappointed that you weren’t ready when I arrived,” Sophie said with a smile as we walked towards Henry’s Crossing, “but at least you’re clean.”

  “I’m sorry about that,” I muttered as my face flushed. “I was just so tired when I finished work last evening.”

  Sophie held the door for me as we reached the tea room. “No worries,” she said. “I was up half the night working on a story.”

  “Half the night? How in the world can you be so chipper?”

  “Lots and lots of tea,” Sophie said as she sat down at a corner table. “What do you recommend for a light breakfast here?”

  “The muffins.” I headed for the counter.

  “Excellent. Do get me two, would you?”

  I assented and, after a brief wait, I placed our order and rejoined Sophie. “Why two muffins?” I asked as I set Darjeeling on the table.

  “Sometimes I don’t get a chance to get lunch. That muffin may be all I eat before dinner.”

  “So I’m paying for two meals for you?” I said playfully.

  “You get the receipt and give it to me,” Sophie said, “and I get reimbursed. It’s a business expense.”

  “I wish I could do that with my employer.”

  “You’re self-employed.”

  “Don’t change the subject.” I glanced at a copy of the Courant on the table next to us. “Did you make the newspaper today?”

  “Page 38,” Sophie said as the tea was brought to our table.

  I snatched the newspaper and turned towards the back as Sophie poured the tea. It was a short piece, part of a series she had been writing on the older residents of Copper Cove, the ones who had been alive before the guilds were founded. I glanced at the article; it was about a woman whose grandchildren were in the Double-C, and who had trouble at times with all the new devices they insisted on buying for her. “I’ll save this for later,” I said as I set the newspaper aside.

  Sophie raised an eyebrow. “It’s not good?” she asked.

  “I’m sure it is. I just don’t want to be impolite by ignoring you while I read.”

  “You’re being impolite by not reading something I wrote.”

  I glared at Sophie. She held her straight face for a moment before she started to giggle. I smiled in turn and said, “You almost had me there.”

  Sophie reached for her tea. “I do my best,” she said as our food arrived.

  Our conversation paused for a moment as Sophie ate one of her muffins and I dug into my bacon and egg butty. “Oh! Manners!” I said after a few bites. “Thank you for pouring the tea.”

  “You’re welcome,” Sophie said. “How is your butty?”

  “Delicious as always.”

  “So why didn’t you recommend it?”

  “You asked about a light breakfast.”

  “I’ll know better next time.” Sophie sipped her tea. “Did you see the front page?”

  “About Lady Greenbrae?” I glanced at the photograph of the rather irate elf. “She can’t get a ticket to the Express’ debut trip? Poor thing.”

  “She also seems irate about some rogue crafter wrecking her myrmidon.” Sophie half-smiled.

  “Fascinating.” I tried not to blush; I was sure she knew who had done it and why.

  “But they also announced the winners of the lottery for the first day train tickets.”

  I looked down the page and saw the article. My name was not on the list of winners. “I never wanted to make the news anyway,” I said, hiding my disappointment.

  Sophie nodded. “I may also be on that trip, covering it for the Courant.”

  “Some people have all the luck.” I sipped my tea. “Is this a good time to start going over how we’re handling today?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “I do have three requests.”

  “Requests?” Sophie raised an eyebrow.

  “Right. First, I want as much anonymity as possible for my clients as well as for myself. I don’t want them to get into trouble if the guilds are upset by your article.”

  Sophie tapped her chin. “I can’t say that’s possible. I might have trouble getting the story past my editor if I can’t publicly name all my sources. What I will do is ask them if I have their permission to quote them in the article.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. “Fair enough. Secondly, I assume you’ll be interviewing guild representatives about their position on independent crafters?”

  “I was planning on that.”

  “I would like the opportunity to review their statements and rebut them. They’ve been spreading misinformation about us and what we do for years. I want our side to be heard.”

  “Absolutely!”

  “Thank you.” I inwardly sighed with relief. “And lastly, do leave Darjeeling out of the story if you can. If you mention her, I’ll be easy to identify.”

  Sophie smiled. “She won’t want to be famous by appearing in the newspaper?”

  “The only thing she wants is a bite of my butty.” I rolled my eyes, pretending to be annoyed, as I gave Darjeeling a small piece of bacon. “Little moocher,” I grumbled.

  “But a cute little moocher!”

  “That’s how she gets away with it.” I smiled as Amee brought a small tart to my table. “Dessert!”

  The sprite set the plate down and withdrew. “You’re still hungry?” Sophie asked.

  “Staying up past midnight working does wonders for one’s appetite. And besides…” I cautiously tapped the plate, to draw Sophie’s attention to the two envelopes underneath. “I might be a bit late getting to lunch today.”

  There was a reason why the troll community of Copper Cove wouldn’t work with the guilds. They had been uprooted from their homes along the shore of the Crescent Sea so that the station for the new rail line could be built there, as well as several high-end flats. The city’s trolls had been relocated to a new neighborhood, in rehabilitated warehouses by the Perrin Bridge, but they still bore grudges, and troll grudges last even longer than the rocks they’re so oddly fond of.

  Most of Copper Cove’s trolls worked in construction, and as a result there was a high demand in their community for laundry services. One troll had been operating a cleaners for years; her washing and drying machines run around the clock. They were sturdy enough, but every now and then they would break down, and that’s when I’d be contacted.

  I was fortunate that I was up and around early, thanks to Sophie. It took more than two hours to repair the washing machine, most of which involved removing a cracked valve and replacing it. It gave Sophie plenty of time to interview the operator. Glingarigan had no love whatsoever for the guilds, and as she answered Sophie’s questions in rather colorful language, I found myself thinking that this part of her article would require a great deal of editing.

  “That was interesting,” Sophie said as we stepped outside once I was done.

  “You’re not used to language like that?” I said with a grin.

  “I work for a newspaper. You should hear my editor swear when I’m up against a deadline.”

  “Not you?”

  “I’m not like some people.” Sophie smiled. “There was one person who was quite indelicate when she couldn’t remove that
cracked valve.”

  “I beg your pardon!” I said indignantly.

  “What for?”

  “I did not curse like an editor over the cracked valve. It was the stuck gasket that caused it!” I pointed at Sophie.

  “You’re the reporter! Get your story straight!”

  Sophie threw her head back and laughed. “I’ll make sure to include that in the article!” she said.

  “Excellent reporting.” I smiled. “It’s a bit too early for lunch still, isn’t it?”

  “I had my second muffin while waiting for you.”

  “Alright, then. I had an idea on where we could go next. We had discussed speaking with other independent crafters?”

  “We did.”

  “Well, we just happen to be near one who might have a few things to say about the guilds.”

  Jacob Jenkinson lived on the outskirts of the city, in a barn that had managed to escape being torn down when most of the farmland surrounding it had been bought up and used to build housing. It worked for him; he had set up living quarters in the loft that overlooked the floor below, which was filled from wall to wall with workbenches, blueprint and specification bins and shelves with tools and parts. His sensing wasn’t as strong as mine, so he focused on commissions and crafting his own creations. “Is he going to be home?” Sophie asked as we approached the barn.

  “Most likely,” I said, stopping by the door. “It’s too early for him to go down to the pub.” Sophie nodded as I knocked.

  We could hear a faint voice, then footsteps. The door was flung open, and a man about my age with a long unkempt beard and spectacles with lenses thicker than beer mug glass glared at me. “Oh. It’s just you, Miles,” he muttered as he stepped outside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. “I thought it might be someone pleasant.”

  “Good morning, Jacob!” I grinned and waved at him.

  “Just tell me what you want and get it over with.”

  “Cheerful as always. Sophie?”

  She nodded and put out a hand. “Sophronia Haverford. I write for the Courant. I’m planning an article on independent crafters. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”