by Cat Rambo
Despite her courteous tone, her nerves jangled with possible confrontation. She had appointments this afternoon to speak with two Explorers interested in publishing their memoirs with Spinner. In the guise of checking their accuracy, she’d talk with them and size up whether the Press wanted to pursue them. But more than that, this morning held Mathu Reinart, yet again.
“Adelina, would you consider running for office?” Emiliana said. Her tone was mild. “Some minor role, perhaps, where you might represent our family.”
The notion appalled Adelina. It would cut into time needed for the Press, time already hard to come by. “Our family, or our interests? The notion doesn’t appeal to me.”
“A pity. You would be ideal. Perhaps you might consider it more fully and we can discuss it as we go through the candidate notes.”
“I will not change my mind,” Adelina said, pulling on her gloves, thin fur-lined blue leather with buttons matching the great coat, each round as a coin, reminding her that Emiliana had paid for them since, she observed, a Scholar’s wages couldn’t be that high.
“We’ll speak tonight,” Emiliana replied.
Adelina slipped out the door without speaking further.
“Shall I have a carriage brought round?” the footman said, blinking in reproach at her, even though he knew full well where she was going, and that she’d walk, rather than take a carriage and the long slanting way that it required.
Biting back a retort, she stalked down the pathway, full of irritation and agitated thoughts, feeling his eyes on her back.
She’d always known it would come to this eventually, from the day she’d started the Press with the profits of the penny-wides she’d been so good at writing under a pseudonym. Emiliana had been waiting for her to gain prestige through her scholarly work. That hadn’t happened and this was only the first salvo, signaling Emiliana’s loss of patience and her intention to make something of her daughter, whether that daughter liked it or not.
Snow drip from the overarching trees along the walk touched her hair. In the distance, the second morning bell sounded. She needed to hurry.
What to do, what to do, her footsteps said. What to do? Was there any way she could balance political life with running the Press? Currently they put out three penny-wides a week—including Bella Kanto’s adventures, the most popular penny-wide in the city—plus two memoirs, and the pamphlet series every purple month. She’d been planning to add a series of guides to the various political parties.
Balance that and all the juggling and talking and scheduling and work it required against the demands of politicking for position? The races would be hot and heavy. Emiliana would expect her to work hard at winning. Emiliana would expect her to win, particularly with Emiliana guiding her every step of the way.
No, Adelina would have to come clean and face the storm.
She glanced leftward as she hurried along the street. The canal fence’s fretwork divided the distant sea into tiles of blue. Maybe I could just take a ship and escape, start a new Press in the Southern Isles.
No. Emiliana would find her, no matter how far she went. Emiliana was like a force of nature.
Sooner or later, she will have to be reckoned with.
CHAPTER 10
L ocated on the fourth Salt Terrace, the Nettlepurse mansion lay figuratively and literally in the shadow of the Duke’s castle hovering on its cliff-top perch, high over Tabat’s western edge.
The eastward calling of the bell from the Duke’s clock usually woke Adelina in the mornings, but plenty of other street noises accompanied it: the grumbling rumble of carts and cabs and steam wagons going along the cobbled streets, peddlers’ shouts and couriers’ bells, preceding them so people would know to scramble out of the way or face a Ducal fine.
To get to her Press, far down near the water, Adelina had to ascend two stairways and then cut eastward along the eighth terrace to the Great Tram if she wanted to descend straight down towards the docks. There were plenty of other interesting ways to go, including by canal skiff, which was the nicest method in the Summer heat. Today, though, she was a little late, although she hadn’t meant to be. It just always seemed to happen that way.
At the head of the Tumbril Stair was Adelina’s favorite vantage point, a wide landing with stone banisters that overlooked the entire city. From there, one could look right and see the Duke’s castle far atop its cliff, and then fifteen terraces down, shelf after shelf, flat lines broken by avenues of flowering trees and other staircases small and large, and dividing the city like a jagged scar, the oily black iron lines of the Great Tram, basket cars swinging up and down, laden with those who had the pennies to spend on such transport.
At the edge of the water lay the Winter Garden and then the bay. Retreat inward a little, and the gaze encountered the docks and warehouses central to the city’s industry. Keep traveling leftward for more shelves, and the great clots of smoke that marked the Slumpers, and then the salt marshes, planted thick with purple and green reeds, a single channel leading through them to allow ships to come down from the Northstretch River and reach the sea.
The five terraces closest to the water were the saltwater neighborhoods; above them lay the freshwater. In Tabat, one distinguished between saltwater and freshwater, from matters such as foodstuffs to professions (for Pilots it was the most important distinction, and the most bitterly fought). Even the markets were separated by that division, with the Saltmarket hosting only wares that knew the sea’s touch: dried fish for chal (which always must be made with saltwater fish), bushels of seaweed, dried and fresh, smelling tangy sharp and green, and the woven reed-ware—baskets and hats, parasols and stiff caplets, tight woven and rain-repellent—that everyone wore once the Summer heat started, until time to burn them in Autumn’s bonfires.
Saltwater Tailors dealt with fabrics from elsewhere—silks and petals from the Rose Kingdom, cheap bright cottons from the Southern Isles—and Freshwater with homegrown wools and flaxy linens, stiff and glossy but prone to wrinkling and expensive to maintain.
The Nettlepurses were Saltwater Merchants, their House built on trade, perfumes, and attars. Adelina had done her turns in the manufacturing side of the House, but her nose was not keen enough to be a perfumer, and she preferred the numbered side of things, the flow of revenue and payments that was the ledger reflection of that industry.
A clock chimed impatience again as she descended but she knew that Serafina would keep her first visitor sedated with tea and pastries in her absence, and that the writer would not leave, not wanting to forego a chance to push his book at her once more.
She was dawdling precisely because he would be doing that, and because she did not want to have to be in the position of telling him she planned to advise the Press to refuse it yet again. By now he had tried three different versions, each one angled at a different aspect of the Press, and the only thing he had yet to try was somehow transforming it into a penny-wide about Bella Kanto.
He was indeed waiting, and tried to speak as she rushed past, but she took her time to sort through the messages on her desk. In her role as the historical authenticator of Spinner Press, she checked through the incoming proposals and there were two new ones here, one from an elderly Explorer and another from a captain recently returned from the Southern Isles.
The first had a monograph on furs that went into exhaustive details of the origin and quality of each. She’d have Serafina direct him to the Manycloaks. That Merchant House would pay well for the information, although they would not publish it. The frayed hems of the man’s greatcoat had made her think it wouldn’t be a bad outcome for either side.
The second had a highly improbable and overly licentious tale of life among the Mer Humans. Toned down, it’d make a satisfying penny-wide. Exotic kisses always sell well.
She moved to the window to stand staring out through the swirls of frost thawing on it, now just a fuzzy frame of the street view. When she’d come in that morning, the frost had been so th
ick she couldn’t see through it.
She could see eastward, out towards the Slumpers, where the snow took on an orange cast, the same tangerine hue as the paper produced there, washed in the same river water full of factory waste. Here in the west, the snow was white as an expensive sheet, the sort you’d print a poem on and sell at a silver skiff, suitable for framing. Serafina had said the Eloquent Swan had come in the night before. That meant there’d be new barrels of salts down in the warehouse. I’ll need to check them over this afternoon.
A tap on the door, followed by a head poking through, directing attention to the horseshoe of fine, dark hair stubbornly clinging to its scalp. Serafina remonstrated in the background.
“Merchant Scholar Nettlepurse, perhaps you are ready for me?”
“Of course. I apologize for keeping you waiting, but you understand the importance of starting the day in an orderly fashion. Call me Adelina, if you please, Scholar Reinart.”
He flapped a hand as he entered, looking around at the narrow office and the stacks of books. The former mortuary had plenty of rooms and as owner, Adelina could have claimed an impressive suite, but even here she preferred to let that ownership remain a mystery to all but a few. This office on the third floor, which overlooked the front door and let her see who was passing in and out, suited her quite well.
She could have shifted offices since then, could’ve found a more prestigious or convenient location, but this spot had an advantage most others lacked. It was close to the Slumpers, and Emiliana hated the acrid smoke that came from the tile works’ chimneys with every eastern wind, sharp with the tang of glazes, sulfur, and bone ash. She would never come to this side of town without strong reason.
Another man followed the Scholar through the door. Cavall, the silent cousin who was his constant companion. He gave Adelina a brief smile, but most of his attention was, as ever, on Reinart.
“I wished to steal a moment of your time,” Reinart said, settling into the only chair not occupied by stacks of manuscripts. He was a middle-aged man, his dark skin marking him the same upper caste as Adelina. His body had run slightly to flesh, but still held a taut athleticism that most Scholars lacked. “And Mathu, if I am to call you by your first name. It’s about my book.”
Inwardly, Adelina groaned, although she didn’t let it show on her face. His book was an exhaustive history of canines over the last three hundred years in Tabat; half of it was appendices, beginning with a list of the dogs brought over by the first Duke and his accompanying fleet, ranging to an overview of current breeders with a précis for each covering their training practices, physical establishments, and pricing. Unsellable except to absolute dog fanatics, most of whom would have found the descriptions of their current champions highly unflattering. Mathu Reinart, himself such a fanatic, disagreed with most of their practices. She’d turned the manuscript down twice already, although he would not know who had made the decision.
“I was wondering if you had any hints on making it more interesting. I had thought if I relented and did include a listing of the entertainment and lap dogs, it might expand its appeal.”
Expand it to another group who’ll find his observations offensive. Reinart thought such dogs beyond useless and Adelina had read enough of his prose to know that he would not keep that opinion from shining through in his listing.
“Have you considered publishing it yourself?” she suggested. Cavall’s nod was approving. Encouraged, despite the doubt on Reinart’s face, she went on. “You’ve spoken of the form you want the book to take to do the depth of the scholarship justice.” And Gods above, that form. Leather covers and a commemorative edition with gilt-edged pages were the smallest of his notions. “That way you’d have full control over such decisions.”
He scoffed. “That’s for dilettantes and people who simply wish to see their name on a page. It’s the history I wish to preserve and share and no bookshop will carry such a project, unless I want to pay them to put it on their shelves.”
He pushed himself off the chair. Adelina noted with amusement that a layer of dog hair coated the front of his clothing. “Thank you for your time,” he said.
“Make it more pertinent to today,” she said.
Already halfway to the door, trailed by Cavall, he turned. “Beg pardon?”
“If you can tie it into today’s events, somehow, the things everyone wants to read about, you’ll have better luck,” she said.
“How might I do that?”
She shrugged.
He stood there for a second, eying her as though she might supply more answer, then bowed with another murmured thanks. Followed by his silent shadow, he slipped out the door.
There was no profit in such books, Adelina thought as she resettled herself. But was that what she wanted, books that sold well? The more prominent the Press became, the harder it grew to conceal her true part in it from her mother.
“I will be back in a few hours,” she told Serafina.
“You arrived but a bell ago,” her secretary told her.
“And yet I have done an entire morning’s work and then some, and would have done more if you hadn’t let Scholar Reinart come flapping in,” she retorted, and trotted off to lunch in a state of irritable indignation.
IN THE DEPTHS of the Salt and Slate teahouse, a terrace closer to the water, Adelina sat staring into her chal. In saying she’d be back in a few hours, she had lied by omission. Serafina would assume she was off on business.
The truth was, Adelina simply wanted an hour or so to herself in order to think. Even when she closed her door at the Press, there were still interruptions, every hour upon the hour, each one spawning a hundred distractions in its wake. Here in this tea shop filled with tile Merchants, no one knew her.
No one asking questions about print runs or paper quality or the origin of that batch of blue ink.
The cup’s solidity warmed the inner arc of her hand, curved around it as she raised it for a sip. The spicy steam teased at her nostrils, almost but not quite provoking a sneeze.
It’s hard to be something that is truly your own. Instead you are the product of your family and your House’s history and all the pieces of your life that you have no control over.
She’d come to realize that, when she felt flashes of envy for Bella, it was for that more than anything else. She wasn’t jealous of the pursuing lovers, or the way shop clerks fawned over Bella, or any of the other annoying appurtenances of fame.
I envy Bella that she’s an orphan, and that she had the guts to deliberately cast off pieces of her family, such as her aunt Jolietta, or kept others at arm’s length, maintaining the relationship with fondness but a definite distance.
Leonoa’s paintings would stir scandal – had stirred scandal -- and Bella would make it clear that she had no sympathy for such sedition. For all her charisma—indeed, perhaps part of that charisma—Bella was surprisingly middle-of-the-road in her political views.
Bella might stop by to report in about the aftermath of the riot. She signaled for a pastry to be wrapped up, then made it two—Bel is always hungry—and headed back to Spinner Press, making her way along the icy streets.
A puddle’s glaze betrayed her and she slipped on the Press’s doorstep coming back in, landing with a jarring thump.
The man beside her refrained from saying, “Are you all right?” which, as a habitually clumsy person, she appreciated. Instead he helped her up and steadied her with impersonal deftness before stepping back. “And would ye be Miss Adelina?”
She eyed him. He had the pale skin of a Northerner, but with the almost painful cleanliness of someone with social aspirations. His hands were well kept but calloused, and his hair stuck out, although it was clear pomade had been called in recently in an unsuccessful battle to contain it. The stiff new cockade in his hat bore the blue and gold vees of the Explorer’s Guild. He had the slurring accent of one of Tabat’s lower class, raised on the lower terraces.
“Who’s asking?” she s
aid.
He bowed to her. “River Pilot Eloquence Clement, at your service.”
She bowed in return, one equal to another. “And why are you looking for me, River Pilot Eloquence?”
“I was told you help with Spinner Press, advising them on manuscripts to buy. My mate brought up some barrels for you last night and he said the clerk mentioned as how sometimes the House publishes accounts of the frontier. I have an account of river life that I thought the Press might look at.”
“Is it well written and entertaining?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Being the writer, I am bound to say it is, no matter what. Perhaps you would be willing to read it yourself and advise me?”
“I have many manuscripts on my desk already,” she warned him. “I might not get to it till Spring.”
He shrugged again. “I don’t plan to quit working as a Pilot anytime soon.” Quizzical blue eyes studied her. “You do not look like my idea of a Publisher.”
“An advisor, merely,” she said quickly.
“Are you good friends with Bella Kanto? Who is the author of the accounts of her adventures?”
“I am, actually,” she said. “But I do not advertise that much.”
“They’re very vivid,” he said.
She laughed at him. “And they make enough so that the Press can publish accounts of River Pilots and old Explorers’ journals. Come, we’ll talk in my office.”
She ushered him up the central staircase and past Serafina’s inquisitive gaze.
His gaze swept the shelves, taking in the welter of books and papers. “Moons, how do you find anything?”
“I have a system,” she said. “Give me the manuscript.”
He shook his head.
She gave him a surprised look.
“I thought I’d enchant you with my witty conversation and lull you into sending for it,” he said.
“Who advised such a strategy?”
“No one. I came up with it on me own.”
