Lady Henterman's Wardrobe

by Marshall Ryan Maresca

  “You wanna dust, ivory?”

  “Order up!” Julien yelled. She turned to grab the order, and saw Julien scowling at her.

  “What?” she asked as she grabbed the next set of goxies.

  “You don’t fight,” Julien said coldly. “You make sure I don’t fight, I do the same to you.”

  “I’m just mad,” she said. “I just—”

  “Order’s up,” Julien said, pointing to the wrapped sandwiches. “Talk later.”

  “Right,” she said. She grabbed the goxies and brought them out. “Take your food, Poller. Stop bothering me.”

  “Or what?” Poller snarled.

  Julien turned to the window. “Or me.”

  “Fine,” Poller said. He handed the sandwiches to Ia, who started eating the first one as menacingly as anyone can eat a sandwich. They strolled off.

  “Next order!” Helene called out. “Pork and cheese, hot goxies!”

  The orders kept coming, and Helene kept working. But she knew that Poller wasn’t going to let it go. That was going to be a problem for the crew. And the only thing she could do at the moment was put up the front that nothing was going on.

  That, or knock Ia’s teeth out. That would be satisfying.

  Chapter 6

  “THE FAR HEART HAS hard wars to harden its home for hurricanes,” Mila repeated as they walked down Promenade Street in the heart of Inemar. One of Mister Gin’s exercises to work her accent, knock the Westie out her speech patterns.

  “You can stop that now,” Asti said. “You’ll be fine.”

  “First time I’ve really tried this,” Mila said.

  “You’ve got to do the real thing sooner or later,” Asti said. “This is a good field assignment for that.”

  “Because the stakes are low?” Mila asked. She knew that if this didn’t go right, Asti probably had six other plans to get the information he wanted.

  “They aren’t low, but . . . the risk is. You’re not going to have to pull a knife or bolt if this doesn’t work. Worst case is you’ll get insulted and told to leave.”

  They reached the steps of the City Archives building, a bright giant of white stone steps and pillars. It looked like what she imagined the royal palace on the other side of the river must. Several young men, well dressed, were standing at the bottom of the steps, waving pamphlets and shouting out to whoever came close.

  “Put the path of God in the Parliament! Vote for Acarrick!”

  “Government that works! Hentin Parinal is the Functionalist for you! Learn about the whole Frike ticket!”

  “You sir, you sir,” one of them said to Asti as they approached. “You look like the sort of fellow who supports the average man of business.”

  “I suppose,” Asti said. Mila noticed he had shifted his accent a bit, just like she was supposed to be working on.

  “Thus I’m certain that Turncock and Winfell have your support to be returned to the Parliament. They’ve been working hard for the merchants and artisans of this archduchy and country, and they need your help as well.”

  “Sure, sure,” Asti said, taking the pamphlet. “They’re Minties, right?”

  “Yes, of course,” the young man said. “Now as I’m sure you’re aware, there’s a special election for a third chair from Sauriya. I’m sure you heard—”

  “Yes, of course,” Asti said. “Tragic, tragic. And therefore Good Misters Turncock and Winfell are supporting who?”

  “Pentin Oswin! He’s a key member of the business community in Kyst, a man of enterprise, who’s also served in that city’s Council of Aldermen . . .”

  “Oswin, all right,” Asti said. Mila couldn’t tell if he was playing a role or was really interested. “Give me just a moment, and I’d like to talk to you about our own aldermen here in Maradaine.”

  “Of course.”

  Asti pulled Mila to the side. “You better get in there.”

  “You think this will work?”

  Asti handed her the papers. “Confidence, but mixed with nervous desperation. You know what you’re saying?”

  “I’ve got some words in my head,” she said.

  “Say that again without your Westie accent.”

  “I’ve got some words in my head,” she said again, making sure to round her vowels and articulate her w’s and h’s.

  “Good, go for it.”

  “You’re not coming?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Why did you even dress for this?”

  “So you wouldn’t look strange walking with me.”

  Mila rolled her eyes. “Are you really interested in this election stuff, or is this part of the role?”

  “Just go.”

  Inside the main lobby, there were two guards, whose uniforms looked more official than the ones in the Pomoraine, but weren’t quite Constabulary either. King’s Marshals? Sheriffs of the Archduchy? She had no idea, and she felt she should know.

  “Pardon me,” she said, going up to one of them. Confident. She’s supposed to be here. “I need to get to the office for City Registrar Archives?”

  “Second floor, to the right,” he said, pointing up the stairs.

  “Thank you, kindly,” she said. “Have a good morning.”

  He just grunted. She might have oversold it.

  She made her way up the stairs, putting on the best “harried” expression she could as she went. “Be in character well before you approach the mark,” Mister Gin had said. She allowed herself one more “The far heart fought hard wars to harden its home for hurricanes” before she went into the Archives office.

  “Oh, thank every saint you’re already here,” she said to the clerk as she went up to the desk. “I was worried no one would be here before nine bells.”

  “No, no,” the clerk said. An older man, thick spectacles over his mousy nose. He wasn’t unlike Almer, actually. “Here at eight, closed at twelve, open again at two, and closed at six. Every day.”

  So that’s who this guy was. The by-the-rules official. That would be challenging.

  “Glad to have it.” She slapped the papers Asti had written out on the counter. “I’m in a bit of a bind, sir.”

  “Well, I don’t know what that has to do with me, young lady.”

  “My boss is an attaché for one of the aldermen, who is expecting a report on several formal associations that are involved in a project on the west side.”

  “Right, that’s pretty standard. Requests for those records should be put in five days in advance of receipt, so we can have that on the twenty-third.”

  “Ah, no,” Mila said. “You see, I need this so he can present it at nine bells.”

  “Well, young lady, that sounds like you didn’t plan properly.”

  “But I did,” Mila said. She had to get him on her side, give him a story he’d respect. She lowered her voice. “One of the other secretarial girls is trying to sabotage me—she wants my job.”

  “Again, I don’t know how this concerns me.”

  “So she hid one of the associations they want a report on. Gave it to me last night after you closed. I have all the rest, I just need information on this one.”

  “That isn’t how things work, young lady. You put in the request, then I pull the file, and then I check it for security concerns—”

  “Security concerns?”

  “Not every file can be released to any secretary or functionary, young lady . . .”

  “I have an alderman’s attaché—”

  “I’m talking potentially. I don’t know about yours. Still, then I send it to the scribe on the third floor, who makes a copy, returns the copy and the file to me. I’ll send a page to your office to let you know to come get it . . . there is procedure.”

  “We did that. But there’s this one.”

  “Even if I could he
lp you, the scribes are very busy. They can’t possibly . . .”

  “I don’t need a copy,” Mila said.

  “Well, I can’t very well give you the original . . .”

  “No, I mean . . .” She was getting flustered, and almost letting her accent slip. “I can copy what I need. If you can just put it in front of me for a few moments.”

  He nodded sagely for a moment. “This girl, the one who has it in for you. What’s her name?”

  “Helene,” Mila answered without blinking.

  He chuckled. “What’s the file?”

  “Creston Group.”

  “Let me check,” he said, going into the back.

  Mila let out a deep breath. Surprisingly, he didn’t even look at the papers Asti had forged. Who knows what those even said.

  After a few minutes he came out carrying a handful of papers. “You might have a real problem, young lady.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, the Creston Group has been filed with quite a few security precautions. I can only release the file—or let it be copied—by one of the aldermen themselves. Not his attaché and certainly not you.”

  “But I—” She stopped. This guy was going to play by the rules. “Is there anything you can tell me from the file? An address or . . .” She struggled to think of what the official term might be. “Or a responsible party?”

  “Responsible party?”

  She leaned in close. “This report is about . . .” What was the word? Verci would use it sometimes. “Liability. If someone is injured . . .”

  “Who the aldermen can pass the lawsuit onto,” the clerk said. “I understand.” He thumbed through the papers, humming tunelessly. “All right, there is a name listed as the primary signatory, and that’s not in the protected portion. It is literally just a name, now . . .”

  “That will help,” Mila said.

  “Lord Nathaniel Henterman, the Earl of Hinton Hollow.” He clicked his tongue. “Privacy of the Peerage is quite a thing, still.”

  Mila put on a smile. “That helps, quite a bit. Thank you so much.”

  He smiled back, his teeth a bit crooked and blackened. Leaning closer he added, “I know some of us have to work a bit harder to stay ahead of the Helenes in this world. Mine was Mitchell.”

  Mila laughed. “I appreciate it. Now I have to run.”

  “Good luck.”

  She scurried out of the office, down the stairs and through the lobby, to find Asti waiting outside, thumbing through the pamphlet the campaigner had given him.

  “Any luck?”

  “I have a name.”

  “That’s something.”

  “Lord Nathaniel Henterman, the Earl of Hinton Hollow. Now we just have to find out who he is.”

  “I have an idea,” Asti said.

  * * *

  Asti had a name now, the man behind the fire. He sent Mila off to check on her boys—he had a feeling he was going to need them—and went back to the safehouse to do more research. But even after going back through the paperwork, he had nothing else to go on. Presuming Lord Henterman was a client of Mister Chell’s, none of what Verci had stolen indicated that. He needed more information. Surely Druth Intelligence had a whole file on Henterman—they had files on everyone in the peerage—but he could hardly go into the Office and pull it himself.

  So he had to do the next best thing.

  By midmorning he had camped outside the spice shop that was the residence of Khejhaz Nafath, the Poasian spy turned double agent for Druth Intelligence. Nafath was really the only asset Asti had left from those days, and he wasn’t really Asti’s asset. Nafath had other handlers, both Poasian and Druth, and he had signals for contacting any of them. Nafath might know something about Henterman, but it wasn’t likely. Nafath didn’t have any reason to follow nobility. So Asti needed an active agent.

  Asti was the one who had initially turned Nafath, made sure his spice shop was placed here in western Maradaine. So he knew all the signals, and odds were Druth Intelligence hadn’t bothered to change theirs.

  So Asti turned the marked stone in the outer wall of the spice shop, and waited to see who would respond.

  It was nearly eleven bells when someone made a note of the signal and slipped away. It was subtle, and Asti wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking for it.

  A half an hour later, someone else came to Nafath’s shop. This was a face Asti recognized: Tranner. Not a friend by any means, but a decent enough agent. Asti didn’t even wait a beat before following him in, which was good, because once he was inside, Tranner and Nafath were already confused.

  “Hey, you called for me,” Tranner was saying. “So you tell me—”

  “Hello, Tranner,” Asti said. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “Rynax?” Tranner asked. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

  “He lives in this neighborhood,” Nafath said coldly. “This explains why you got the signal from me.”

  “I sent it,” Asti said.

  Tranner scowled. “We need a new signal, then. And I’m going to report this, Rynax.”

  “Wait,” Asti said, holding up his hands peacefully. “I know I’m not well liked back in the Office.”

  “We don’t think about you at all, you crazy bastard. But maybe that will change now.”

  “I need some information.”

  “I don’t care what you need.”

  Asti steeled himself. This wasn’t going to be easy.

  “Mister Tranner,” Nafath said. “I strongly suggest you listen to his request.”

  “Why should I, ghost?”

  “Because I have seen that look on Mister Rynax’s face before. And it is not one many people see twice.”

  “You going to fight me, Rynax?”

  Asti was tempted to go for bluster, or even threats, but that wouldn’t give him what he needed. “No, Tranner, I’m not. But given what I’ve sacrificed for Intelligence, for the Office . . . this isn’t too much to ask. It could have been you on Levtha.”

  Tranner gave a conciliatory shrug. “Rand tricked us all. You’re just the one who took the arrow. What do you want to know?”

  “Lord Nathaniel Henterman. Earl of Hinton Hollow, I believe.”

  “What do you need to know about him?”

  “Anything you have,” Asti said.

  Tranner mulled for a moment. “Is he a threat to Druth security?” Tranner glanced at Nafath. “You think he’s been turned or something?”

  “I don’t know much of anything yet,” Asti said. “I don’t have anything concrete, but . . . I think it might need to be looked into.”

  “We can’t just casually look into a member of the peerage, Rynax.”

  “All the more reason for me to look a bit deeper. Deniability.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” He shook his head. “Off the top of my head, he’s got a manor house in East Maradaine, in that part where the south side nobles have their houses. He spends most of his time in Maradaine, letting the affairs of Hinton Hollow be handled by his staff.”

  “All right,” Asti said.

  “His father served on the Council of Lords under Maradaine the XVII, as High Lord of Finance. His grandfather was a Noble Officer in the war. He was one of the commanding adjuncts in the Khol Taia occupation.”

  Nafath made a strange noise at the mention of Khol Taia.

  “Wait, Captain Willman Henterman? That one?” Asti had been forced to read about the various heroes of the war in his training, and most of it was just lists of places in the islands and names of officers that he didn’t bother to keep straight. But Khol Taia was different.

  Khol Taia was the one place where the war had been brought to Poasian shores. Druth forces occupied the city in 1158 and held it for three years. Supposedly, once the Poasians fo
rced them off, they burned the city to the ground, considering it now “sullied.” Captain Willman Henterman was a minor name in all that, but he had the distinction of being the only officer who was both part of the initial invasion and one of the last people to leave in the retreat.

  “That’s the one. As for the current one, he’s recently married, just a few months ago or so, but I don’t recall the details. But it was a large event. He’s got close ties to a few members of Parliament, as well as some of the lords on the King’s Table. He’s big on creating events, being seen. He throws some kind of gala at any opportunity.”

  “Gregarious?” Asti asked.

  “Possibly to a fault.” He thought for a moment. “Though that might be masking deep debts, leaving him vulnerable—” Tranner stopped. “That’s just my speculation right now, not any official opinion.”

  “Can you bring me something official?” Asti asked.

  “Why would I?” Tranner said.

  “Fine, then,” Asti said. “Do you know anything about the Creston Group? Or something called Andrendon?”

  “Not a clue,” Tranner said, going to the door. “I’ll let my superiors know you’re asking, how about that? Then we’ll find out what they think of you.”

  “Fair enough,” Asti said.

  “And I better not see the two of you at the same time again,” he said, and left the store.

  Asti went for the door. “Asti, dear friend,” Nafath said. “You use me like that, and don’t even make the courtesy of a purchase?”

  “I’m not really in the market for Poasian spices,” Asti said.

  “But you are always in the market for information, as we can plainly see. I may not know about noble lords, but I do know this neighborhood.” Nafath pulled a jar out and put it on the counter. “I do hear things, you know. You might find what I know to be of use to you.” He tapped on the jar.

  Nafath’s true job, as far as his Poasian masters were concerned, was to seek out dissidents in the poor neighborhoods of Maradaine. Druth people who could be turned into Poasian agents. Even though he had been turned to work for Druth Intelligence, he still went through the motions of his job for the Poasians.