“I think you’re all old enough to make up your own minds, don’t you?” Pierpont said. “Or does Mistress Weaver control your decisions? I’d be embarrassed to admit to it, were I you.”
There was another murmur, this one uglier. “Nobody tells us what to do,” an unfamiliar woman’s voice said.
“That’s exactly right. You’re reasonable, independent people. Now, I would never tell anyone what to do. I just lay out the facts and let you make the decision.”
“Except when you’re not giving us all the facts!” That was Amelia.
“You’re not calling me a liar, are you?” Pierpont said. “I’ve never been anything but honest with you all.”
“That’s not entirely true, is it, Mister Pierpont,” Zara called out. The whole room shifted as everyone turned to look at her. Zara walked forward, the crowd parting for her like waves before a warship’s prow. “You’ve been much worse than dishonest. Care to explain how?”
“Impossible,” Pierpont said. “I put enough—” He shut up fast. Well, she hadn’t expected him to burst out with a confession. And this way was more fun.
“Happen you made a mistake,” she continued. “More than one, really. What you did…not the most precise way to kill someone, is it?” Gasps, and muttered conversations, washed over her, but she had attention only for her prey.
“That’s a serious accusation,” Pierpont said. She was impressed at how well he’d regained his composure. “You’ve got no proof.”
“You’re right. I don’t have proof. But Maida Handly does.” She didn’t dare look behind her to see Maida’s expression, couldn’t risk losing control. “You really should have washed the pot yourself. It’s sitting in Maida’s kitchen, waiting its turn to be washed—see, there’s another thing you didn’t know, that Maida’s second barman always waits until he’s got a full sink before he does a load of dishes. So that teapot is going to show the remains of whatever poison you put into it. The Baron has people who can test it for those substances. And then…then I have nothing but proof.”
Pierpont was gripping the back of the chair next to him, his knuckles white. “No,” he said.
“Yes, Mister Pierpont, very much yes.” Zara took a few more steps toward him until she was within striking distance, though she’d never needed weapons other than words. “So here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to sell the factory building to the town of Longbourne at a price we decide. I should warn you it’s not going to be a price you like. You’re going to ship those looms back down the mountain—and you’d better do it soon, because I don’t think you want to spend the winter up here. We’ll let you return the wool you bought at full price—we aren’t criminals. And you’re going to leave here and never come back.”
“I think you’re bluffing,” Pierpont said.
“This is no game,” Zara said, her voice low and intense. “I don’t bluff with people’s lives. Take my offer, Mister Pierpont, or take your chances with the authorities. And thank heaven I gave you an offer at all.”
A muscle in Pierpont’s jaw twitched. In his eyes Zara saw fear and anger warring with each other. She stared at him with the expression that had won her so many Council battles. No fear, no mercy, strike cleanly and strike fast. Then he blinked, and looked away. “I’ll need a few days to put my affairs in order,” he said.
“You get two,” Zara said. “But I think you’ll find us all extremely cooperative. We wish you a speedy journey, you know.”
Pierpont shouldered past her without another word. Zara didn’t move until she heard the tavern door shut. Then she leaned against the nearest table and took a deep breath as the shouting and arguing and even congratulations began.
“Did he poison you?” Amelia demanded. “Agatha, you could have died!”
Not really. “He tried. I suppose it wasn’t enough.”
“I think it would take more than a little poison to kill you!”
That is so true it’s almost funny. “Well, I’m glad it didn’t work. And now he’s gone. Maida?”
“Agatha,” Maida said, “I have to talk to you.”
“I know. You already washed the teapot.”
Maida’s mouth dropped open. “How did—but you were bluffing! You said—”
“A white lie in the service of something vital. And I was only partly bluffing. Chauncey is the slowest, laziest barman I’ve ever met. For all I knew, the teapot wasn’t going to be washed until the supper rush.”
“Even so—”
“It’s over, Maida. And it all worked out fine. Now…I think I’m going home for a while.”
Amelia walked her home. “I’m still stunned,” she said. “I hope Pierpont doesn’t try anything else.”
“He’s lost. He knows it. We’re all safe.” Zara was familiar with the look Pierpont had worn as he left. She’d seen it dozens of times on the faces of her enemies. The look of utter defeat. Not for the first time, the memory made her uncomfortable. Was she destined to become a woman like Rose Garrity, who took pleasure in tearing people down? Was it enough that everything she did was in the service of someone or something else and not to the glory of Zara North? It has to be, she told herself, and refused to think on it further.
Amelia left her at her back door, saying, “Knitting circle tomorrow night—and just think of what we’ll have to talk about!” Zara smiled, but when her friend was gone she sat at the kitchen table and removed her boots heavily, not wanting to track wet dirt through her house. It was barely mid-afternoon and she was exhausted, but not sleepy. Maybe it was time for some knitting; she didn’t have the energy to work the loom today. She padded up the stairs in her stocking feet and knocked on Sabrina’s door before opening it. “What a story I have for you,” she said.
Sabrina was sitting in the padded chair, her head bowed and her hands relaxed on its arm. One of her feet was splayed outward at an uncomfortable angle—or one which would have been uncomfortable for a living person. “Oh,” Zara said. She knelt by the chair and took one of those hands in hers. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” she said softly. “But I’m glad to have known you, Sabrina Merriwether.”
She knelt like that for a few minutes, thinking of Hank and Sabrina and her brother Anthony and Anthony’s daughter Elspeth, thinking how, from her perspective, everyone died too young. Then she patted Sabrina’s hand and rose. Someone would know how to care for Sabrina’s body before they could bury it, and she needed to make sure Pierpont left, and it was down to her to make a memorial.
Easier if you’re not attached to anything, she thought, but it was a fleeting thought and she didn’t try to make it stay around. Sabrina had been right: We live, and we love, and we mourn, and we rejoice, and none of that was possible without roots that ran deep. Longbourne was her home now, for however long she could stay, and she would defend it against whatever threat came next.
Exile of the Crown Part Four: Summer, 952 Y.B.
On hot days, with the air still as a hunter waiting for prey and the sun hammering down on the gravel road outside, the loom felt like an extension of her. Its treadles pumped in rhythm with her blood, the shuttle flew back and forth in time with her breath, the heddles made her tingle with their thin, high rattling. Days like this, Zara fell into a near-trance, her mind roaming free of the great room and the two apprentices working the spinning wheels, returning only when her legs and arm ached enough she couldn’t ignore them. Or when the back door slammed, as it was prone to do lately no matter how careful you were.
“Mistress Weaver! You got a telecode!” Sarah Anderson said, running into the great room. Sarah was twelve and at a stage where anything new was exciting. Zara let the loom come to rest and held out her hand.
“Back to work, girls,” she said, more sternly than she’d intended. Sarah was a hard worker, and Alys…well, Alys was a little too preoccupied with her looks, but she was skilled enough. Zara tore open the end of the sealed envelope and shook the telecoder form into her hand, unfolded it, and read:
>
AM SENDING WOMAN TO STAY WITH YOU NEEDS INTRODUCTION TO LONGBOURNE. ONE OF MY SPECIAL RETAINERS. YOU WILL BE HER AUNT. EXPECT ARRIVAL FIVE DAYS. JEFFREY
Her mouth fell open. That boy had the nerve…! She stood, extricated herself from the stool that had become entangled with her skirt, and tore open the front door, which stuck from disuse. If Jeffrey thought he could demand this of her—what was he thinking!—he was going to be sorely disappointed. She might not be his Queen, but she sure as hell was his elder and he had damn well better show her respect.
She stormed off down the street, kicking up gravel the whole way and ignoring the greetings of the friends she passed, stormed through the door to the tavern wishing it were closed so she could have the pleasure of slamming it open. That would relieve her mood…somewhat.
“Get up, Abel,” she said, grabbing Abel Roberts’ shoulder. “We’re off down the mountain. Now.”
Abel blinked at her, then picked up his oversized mug. “Can’t do it,” he said. “Too late. Happen we’d be stuck down mountain overnight.”
“Then we’ll stay overnight. I’ll pay for your room. But we are leavin’ now.”
Abel shook his head. “No, not even if y’shout at me as I know you will. It ain’t safe.”
“Safe? You drive that road drunk as a brace of skunks!”
“Not in the dark. I be drunk most days, but never stupid, certain sure.”
“Agatha, he means it,” Maida said from behind the bar. “You’ll have to wait.”
“This can’t wait!” Zara sank onto a bar stool and glared at Abel. “Fine. But happen you’re takin’ me down tomorrow, not day after.”
“I won’t—”
“You will, Abel Roberts, or I’ll make your life a misery as only Agatha Weaver can.”
Abel looked at her sideways. “You’re a harpy, certain sure.”
“And a harpy what gets her way. At dawn, Abel.” She slid off the stool, declined the offer of beer though she felt she sorely needed it, and walked home, this time kicking the gravel on purpose even though her irritation was draining away. Jeffrey could at least have given more details. “Special retainer”…that meant an agent of the Crown. Why an agent of the Crown in Longbourne? Why her? Surely an agent was accustomed to making a place for herself without the help of an outsider. Damn that whelp of a nephew of hers. Nearly thirty years of ruling Tremontane and he thought that gave him the right to make demands of people. Hah. It probably did. She just didn’t think she ought to be one of them.
She was ready before dawn the next morning, ready before Abel, though to his credit (or possibly his fear of her) he showed up, sober for once, in the wagon yard behind the general store and hitched up the horses without complaint.
It was a pleasant ride down the mountain, cool and shady, though the ride back in the heat of the afternoon would no doubt be uncomfortable. Zara sat clutching the splintery seat and looked out over the pass, where dark green pines grew on the nearly vertical cliff faces and golden aspens, their leaves like bright coins, shivered in the slight breeze. Somewhere in the distance she could hear the river chattering its way down from Mount Ehuren, probably icy even at this time of year.
She rarely went down mountain, instead sending her wares for Josiah Stakely at the Hitching Station to handle, and every time was a new wonder. She patted her pocket, felt the paper crackle, and summoned up outrage again. However beautiful this ride was, it wouldn’t make her forget what she was there for.
She barely stopped to say hello to Josiah and his wife Joanna before striding up the street toward the telecoder office, not even seeing the beauties of Ellismere she passed. At the telecoder office, she snatched up a pencil and telecoder form and scrawled out a message:
YOU HAVE SOME NERVE. SEND SPECIAL RETAINER ELSEWHERE AM NOT INTERESTED IN PROVIDING INTRODUCTION OR BEING AUNT. DRAG ME INTO YOUR POLITICS WILL YOU. NOT MY JOB ANYMORE.
She handed over her form and some money and then, as an afterthought, said, “Waiting for a reply.” Jeffrey almost certainly wasn’t going to let her have the last word.
She was right. Thirty minutes later the telecoder operator gave her a sheet of paper. NO OTHER CHOICE SORRY BUT TIME IS CRITICAL. YOU REALLY ARE HER AUNT NOT A LIE. JUST GIVE HER A ROOM AND AN EXCUSE SHE HAS NO EXPERIENCE OUTSIDE THE CAPITAL.
She stood in a corner of the busy room and re-read the message. Really her aunt? She reviewed her family tree. Great-aunt, more like. It wouldn’t be Crown Princess Julia, and Jeffrey’s other daughter Caitlin was too young. Sylvester’s daughters lived in Magrette, far east of Ellismere, and couldn’t be said to have no experience outside the capital. That left Elspeth’s daughter Telaine.
Zara closed her eyes and cursed. The frivolous Princess Telaine North Hunter, belle of a thousand balls and the center of fashionable society from here to Ravensholm, vain, giddy, and spoiled. Why Jeffrey thought she was a good choice to be an agent was a mystery of the ages.
She took up a fresh form and wrote: YOU ARE OUT OF YOUR MIND. SHE MIGHT FIGURE IT OUT.
The reply, a few minutes later: CHANCE WE BOTH HAVE TO TAKE. THIS IS IMPORTANT OR I WOULDNT ASK.
She snorted at that. DIDNT NOTICE YOU ASKING.
ASKING NOW. PLEASE.
She scowled at the paper. It must be urgent, if he could ask her to risk having her identity revealed. Well, she’d do it. But she didn’t have to like it. She wrote: YOU OWE ME.
The answer came back: I KEPT YOUR SECRET. WE ARE EVEN.
He thought this made them even? This was closer to blackmail. She folded her many telecodes into her pocket and went to find Abel, who was asleep on the bar but woke into as much alertness as he ever displayed.
On the ride back, she was grateful for Abel’s characteristic silence. So. It was possible she was wrong about the Princess, however unlikely that was; Telaine North Hunter was famous for her wild exploits, and even if she was an agent she was still an entitled, wealthy young woman who had no experience with the kind of life people lived in Longbourne. The outhouse alone would be a shock.
But what made Zara angry was the idea of an agent of the Crown rooting around in her home, pretending to be someone she wasn’t and dragging the good people of Longbourne into whatever ruse she concocted. Well, she had to let the girl live with her, but she didn’t have to make it easy on her.
The corners of her mouth turned up, ever so slightly, in a smile.
The Dance
(Agent of the Crown, Fall 952)
I have a very strong memory of writing the first three paragraphs of this story, but none of why I wanted to write it. Possibly it’s that Ben went through a lot of changes over the twenty-plus years I carried the novel inside me, and I wanted to finally pin him down.
* * *
He scrubbed his hands, taking his time though he was probably already late. The pale suds turned black from the coal dust that filled the creases of his palms and was ingrained in his cuticles and under his nails. She wouldn’t judge him for it, it wasn’t in her nature, but he wanted tonight to be perfect. He couldn’t do anything about the rough calluses on his hands, but he could make them clean enough not to feel embarrassed when he asked her to dance. Assuming he could summon the nerve.
He rinsed a final time and dried his hands, then went back into the bedroom to change. He wished he dared wear his best suit, but people would notice and wonder about it, maybe tease him for trying to outshine the groom, and anyway she was used to the men in the capital and his best probably looked dowdy by comparison. So he put on a clean shirt and trousers, slid his feet into shoes rather than his work boots, and combed his hair. He examined himself in the mirror, which took some doing because it was too small to show his whole body at once, slid his hand over his face to make sure he hadn’t missed any spots shaving.
He paused with his hand still on his chin and looked into his own eyes. What did she think, when she looked at him? Did she guess how he felt about her? Probably not, because she treated him with casual friendliness, none of
the flirtation she showed Jack and Liam and a handful of other men who all hovered around her like moths courting a lantern. Tonight he was going to change all that.
He was terrified.
He’d lost his heart to her the day she came to town. Standing there facing down Irv Tanner’s gang with not a hint of fear, then turning to look at him with those hazel eyes that had such depth to them he’d felt for a moment that he was drowning. He’d barely been able to speak to her, even though all he said was directions to Mistress Weaver’s home. Why he’d gone there that evening, he had no idea—or, rather, he knew exactly why he’d gone, he wanted to see her again; it was how he’d gotten up the nerve to do so that was a mystery.
Then he’d started watching for her, longing to see her coming down the road to pass the smithy with that confident stride as if she were setting out to conquer the world. He’d never known anyone so fearless, and it captivated him even as it worried him that she didn’t take him seriously about the danger Archie Morgan was to her. If he had the right to protect her…but she wasn’t the sort of woman who needed a lot of protecting, was she? Which made the idea all the more compelling. The thought of being the man someone like her might turn to in time of need—just thinking about it made his heart beat faster. Tonight. Anything could happen.
He turned away from the mirror, drew in a deep breath, and rubbed his palms on his trousers, though they weren’t sweaty. The feel of the fine fabric against his hands calmed him. You’re the equal of any man in Longbourne, he told himself, and you just need to show her that. Of course there was no guarantee she’d return his affection, but if he never said anything, he’d never know if she could. And that was the problem: he never knew what to say to her, didn’t know how to court a woman with fancy words or a laughing smile. But tonight he finally had the chance to court her his way. Then it was up to her.
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