Chapter 10 – The Duchess of Andelin’s Salon #5
The young widow was Valleth-pale, with fair skin and very light blue eyes. The ever-wary part of Remin watched her hands for the least threat, especially given the added provocation of her terrible losses from the devils, but Celande showed no sign of ill will as she chatted with Ophele.
“I mentioned her to Master Tiffen,” Ophele explained when they moved on, tucking the sampler into her pocket.
“Her husband died, so she must find work somehow, and he needs seamstresses and embroiderers. Perhaps she could even move into a house in town, in time. Or apartments, maybe? Master Forgess was telling me about the Tower, and it would be easier for some people to manage a few rooms than a whole house, wouldn’t it? ”
“It’s a thought.” Remin was reluctant to admit that the Masters of the Tower could have anything resembling a good idea, but might it be faster to build one apartment building than a dozen cottages? “I suppose they might all heat each other’s rooms, with a dozen fireplaces going.”
“We could ask Master Ffloce. He was talking about building more cottages anyway, by the river for the fishermen, and a few by the clay banks for Master Peltier’s apprentices. That would free up cottages on this road for the people from Ferrede.”
“Maybe on the road nearby, we’re trying to keep the river itself clear.” Remin glanced at her. “Master Peltier took on apprentices?”
“Yes, three: two boys and Placide Restruke, he’s one of the men from Selgin. He lost his left foot,” Ophele added delicately. “But the boys can do the hauling and Placide can sit while he’s processing the clay, and Master Peltier says he doesn’t mind.”
“They won’t get better training.” Remin approved. Master Peltier was not just a potter. He was one of the Empire’s Great Masters, a living treasure, and exacting in his expectations.
“Yes. And Mionet said it was all quite proper, my talking to them,” Ophele added. “Master Didion mentioned we needed pots and crocks and bowls and everything for the kitchen, and I know you like things made in the valley, so I thought of Master Peltier…”
When she had first asked about inviting half the population of Tresingale to lunch, Remin had thought it was just an excuse to interrogate her victims for an hour uninterrupted.
He had never in his life met anyone who was so curious about everything.
It was a pity he couldn’t present her properly to the Tower, when they went to Segoile; she needed a teacher, if only for the sake of everyone around her.
But Juste was right. This year, they must conceal her intelligence.
Listening to her now, though, he wondered if that was possible.
Her ravenous intellect was obvious the moment she opened her mouth, and she was filled with excitement for her new society, from her fascination with Master Peltier’s pottery to a recounting of her lunch with Azelma, Wen, and Noulen.
Her snarling impression of Wen—in this case, belligerently defending his sourdough starter—made Remin laugh until he was breathless.
And those luncheons had proved fruitful in a dozen unlikely ways.
In a matter of weeks, Ophele had her dainty fingers in a dozen pies all over town, listening to the gossip, learning the personalities, and then matching people together to help his folk help each other.
Remin could not have been prouder. This was exactly what he wanted his duchess to do, though he could never have articulated it before.
In his mind, his task was to build high walls and a sturdy roof for his people, while Ophele’s was to welcome them in and make them feel at home.
This was all he wanted. This work, for the rest of his life.
Remin could have spent days talking with her about his plans for Tresingale, debating the merits of row homes versus cottages, working together to find the best and happiest place for every one of their people.
Yes, move the fishermen to cottages by the river, and let them teach others their craft.
The first fishing boats would be done by spring, and the surviving fishermen of Isigne were slowly weaving nets as their wounded fingers healed.
Remin looked forward to the day when he would see those boats on the river, hauling a bounty of fish to feed the town.
He wanted honest work for all of them. Let them rear their children. Let them flourish.
But for now, that was only a dream.
“I’ll be late tonight,” he told Ophele as they turned back to the manor. “We have some plans to finalize. If I’m not there for supper, go ahead and eat.”
“Is there anything wrong?” she asked, her eyes flicking to his face.
“No. Just some business I’ll be glad to have done.” Sooner or later, he was going to have to tell her some of it. But not yet. Remin glanced at her, admiring her light seat on the Gevalle mare. “I hardly need to get you a horse now when you have such a fine one. Her feet barely touch the ground.”
“Oh, but wasn’t Huber counting on him?” she asked. “The Anglose? I thought Huber would help train him, once he’s better. I want to call him Prancer.”
“I forbid it,” Remin said instantly, though the thought that she would want the horse for Huber’s sake softened the rejection. But still, it was bad enough that she had named the mare Dancer. “Lancer can hardly hold up his head for shame as it is.”
“He is very sensitive, for a warhorse.”
“All he wants is a little peace and dignity,” Remin said, suppressing a smile at the impish look she shot him. “What will you do with three horses? Surely you won’t forsake Brambles.”
“Miche said he’d teach me to drive Brambles in a sulky. He brought one back from Aldeburke. And I thought, when I go riding with you, then I could take the Anglose,” she explained. “He would look fine beside Lancer, wouldn’t he?”
“He would,” Remin agreed. The battle-scarred Lancer would look very rugged beside an Anglose, but Ophele would make a pretty picture no matter what horse she was perched upon.
It was Huber who had scoured the Empire for a likely beast, and the horse was already waiting for her in Segoile, a handsome stallion of perfect, unblemished black, gentle and intelligent.
Remin was not above using Ophele’s scheme to draw Huber back out of himself.
He was not among Remin’s knights when they gathered at the barracks later that afternoon, and Tounot shook his head when Remin caught his eyes. Well, Huber was still healing. Perhaps it was too soon for him to venture far from his bed.
That left Miche, Juste, Auber, Tounot, and Jinmin crowded into the cramped, windowless room that currently served as their council chamber, insulated by so many layers of plaster and stone that they could not possibly be overheard.
Juste arrived last, pulling the door shut behind him and tossing a scrap of parchment on the table like a Noreveni glass grenade.
“That was found in one of the practice yards this afternoon,” he said, as Remin unrolled the paper.
Miche frowned over Remin’s shoulder. “An inventory? I don’t recognize that shorthand.”
“It may be,” Juste said calmly, drawing up a chair. “There are men here from all over the Empire. We don’t know every system of reckoning.”
“I know that Edemir would have their balls for wasting paper.” Tounot’s eyes narrowed. “And I don’t recognize that handwriting.”
If anyone had been assigning men to do inventory about the barracks, it would be Tounot. Remin scowled.
“Who found it? And where?” he asked, passing the parchment to Tounot.
“A fellow from the night watch. Ferener Hoske, from Trecht,” answered Juste. “He said it fell out of one of the fence posts in yard four.”
“This isn’t an Imperial cipher,” remarked Tounot.
“That we know of.”
“If you have a theory, Juste, I wish you’d share with the group,” drawled Miche, and won a flash from Juste’s pale eyes.
“Perhaps I am testing that theory on all of you,” he said, with exaggerated patience.
“Like whetting a blade in a river,” agreed Tounot, and made both of them snort.
It was possible the note was entirely innocent; a message between lovers, for all they knew.
But Remin and his men had intercepted enough coded communications to recognize the warning signs in this one.
Why would it refer to a second storehouse when the barracks barely had its first, and who was hiding inventories in fence posts?
Remin knew there were spies in his city. Even his allies would have agents in Tresingale. But the fact of the coded message, the concealment, the deception, the betrayal made him so angry, he only jerked his chin toward Juste when the paper made its way around the circle, refusing to touch it.
“Take what you need, Juste,” he said. “Do what you do.”
“Yes, my lord. I would like to show this to Her Grace, with your permission,” Juste added, tucking the message into his breast pocket.
Remin blinked.
“Do you think she can decipher it?”
“No, my lord, there’s not enough code for that. But it may be useful, nonetheless.”
“Do not upset her.” Really, it was a tossup which would distress her more: evidence that there were traitors in their midst or a puzzle she couldn’t solve.
Unfortunately, there was a third option.
“We also have news from Edemir,” Juste went on, flicking one-handed through his stack of reports. “House Hurrell is in the city.”
“The Emperor…pardoned them?” Tounot asked skeptically.
“Edemir says they have a manse on Garderie Boulevard, which is in the Wold.” Juste shrugged. “He is inquiring after their sponsor, but ultimately they would not be there without the approval of the Emperor.”
“A strange chance, that they should be pardoned after eighteen years, and right before Ophele is due to visit the city,” said Miche, his eyes hard.
It could mean nothing good. Remin had been moving heaven and earth to keep Ophele from being unduly stressed about what they might face in the capital, but he didn’t see how he could possibly keep this from her.