Agent of the Crown (4 page)

None of the files in the first drawer were
related to what she was looking for. She tried not to think about
the possibility that there
was
no documentation, relocked
the drawer, and started on the second. Her patience was rewarded
almost immediately; in a folder labeled “Western Trade” she found
several letters, all written in the same careless hand, listing
items, quantities, and drop locations within Veribold. Two other
letters confirmed that the lists referred to shipments of trade
goods, including weapons, received by the Veriboldans from the
Count’s agent acting with the Count’s approval. Perfect.

She was about to fold the letters and slip
them into her gown when she heard the faintest sound of voices, and
footsteps, approaching. Instinctively she put the letters back
where they’d come from, locked the drawer—did the lock actually
catch?—and slipped into the closet, squeezing her light off and
shutting the door. Her heart pounding, she tried to calm her breath
and listened. Maybe the person would pass by.

About half a minute later, she heard the
study door open, and a light went on, the narrow gap at the bottom
of the closet door shedding a pale gleam across Telaine’s feet. “I
can’t be gone long,” said a voice muffled by the closet door. Count
Harroden.

Another male voice, one she didn’t recognize,
said, “You should have thought of that before you became
involved.”

“I’m involved against my will,” said the
Count. “In fact, I should call my guard and have you thrown out.
You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’ll suffer far more than I if you do,”
said the second person. “You still have things you can lose. Would
you like me to call the guards for you?”

Silence, then, “What is it you want,
Harstow?”

Telaine held her breath. Hugh Harstow, Baron
of Steepridge. She’d never met him, but she knew his unsavory
reputation. Her uncle suspected him of any number of shady
dealings, but didn’t have enough evidence to convict him. He’d
settled for exiling the man to the far northeast, pretending it was
an honor for Steepridge to contribute to the defense of Tremontane
against the Ruskalder. He
wasn’t
supposed to be here; his
“honor” might be a thinly disguised fiction, but there was nothing
fictional about his restriction to his lands.

“I’m not satisfied with the shipments I’ve
received recently,” Steepridge said. “It’s shoddy work, frankly,
and our deal was for top of the line material, not whatever fell
off the boat on the way upriver.”

“I can only skim so much off the top,
Harstow,” said the Count. “I’m doing my best.”

“Do better,” Steepridge said, “or I’ll have
to send out a few letters. Drop a word in the right ear.”

“Don’t. Please. My family—”

“Oh, don’t pretend it’s your family you care
about. That sissy boy of yours? Your fat wife? It’s your own skin
you want to protect, you whining, pathetic failure. You’re in this
because you’re weak, Chadwick, and if you disappoint me, I will
destroy you. Do as I say, and you’ve nothing to fear.
Understand?”

“I’ll do whatever you want.” The Count
sounded defeated.

“Yes. You will.” Steepridge, by contrast,
sounded pleased. “Do you have the latest request?”

“I keep everything in here. My security if I
ever have to turn in my rebel ‘friends.’” The sound of a drawer
sliding open.

“What’s wrong?”

“…Nothing. It’s nothing. I thought—but I must
be wrong. See, it’s here.”

Paper rustled. “Can you fill this?”

“Yes.”

“I want it diverted to me. Make up some
excuse. They don’t have any recourse if you tell them you can’t get
it. I’m tired of your sloppy seconds.”

“Yes, Harstow.”

“Call me Baron Steepridge, Chadwick.”

“Yes, Baron Steepridge.”

“Very well. Now, what about the other
matter?”

“It will have to come in pieces.” The Count
sounded as if he was afraid Steepridge might get angry, but the
Baron didn’t respond. “It will all be there before the snows come.
You’ll need to find someone to put it together.”

“Don’t worry about that. You get those
shipments to me. More roundabout this time, too. I don’t want
anyone connecting us and neither do you.”

“Of course.”

Paper rustled again, and Telaine heard the
drawer close. “Was there anything else you wanted to tell me,
Chadwick?”

“No, Baron Steepridge. I’ll make sure
everything’s in hand.”

“See that you do. I’m going to leave now
while the party’s still going strong. You should return to your
guests.” The light went out, and the door closed.

Telaine waited five minutes before opening
the closet door. The room was empty. She pulled out her light
Device and scanned the room. No one waited silently to grab her.
She went back to the desk and unlocked the drawer again. She didn’t
think she’d successfully relocked it before hiding; had the Count
noticed?

Quickly, she dug through the file and
retrieved a handful of the most damning letters, leaving enough
papers that it wouldn’t be immediately obvious the rest were
missing. Someday, some clever Deviser would figure out how to turn
those enormous photography Devices, with their glass plates more
than a foot square and the need for the subject to remain perfectly
still, into something small enough you could carry in one hand.
Until then, she’d have to settle for collecting evidence the
old-fashioned way.

With some reluctance, she put back the list
dated most recently; that one he would certainly miss, if it was
the one the Baron wanted diverted to him. She folded the papers and
tucked them away in her skirt, then relocked the drawer, tugging on
it and its mate to make sure they were secure, and put her lock
picks away.

As she crept through the hallways toward the
facilities, Telaine considered what she’d learned. Steepridge
roaming free was a problem; the Count smuggling goods to him was
another. Harroden had access to trade coming to and from both
Veribold and Eskandel, and it wasn’t impossible that he was using
that access to conceal illegal foreign shipments, or even stealing
goods that came in legally. She’d have to get her report to the
dead drop immediately.

She worried, too, about that unlocked drawer.
Her instincts told her Harroden had noticed and had kept silent,
probably to keep the Baron from becoming angry at his lax security.
The Count’s fear of his blackmailer had kept her mission from going
completely pear-shaped, but he knew, she was certain, that someone
had been in his papers. And unless he had more than one illicit
operation going, he would suspect someone was now aware he was
smuggling arms and supplies to the Veriboldan rebels.

She put her most
cheerful face on as she ascended the stairs to the ballroom, and
ran into Michael, literally ran into him, making him spill a few
drops of his drink. “I do beg your pardon,” she said.

“You need never apologize to me, my dear,” he
said. “But sit down, you look a little shaken. Have some of this
wine.”

She hadn’t concealed her agitation well
enough. “It must be the heat,” she said, fanning herself with her
hand and realizing, as the breeze brushed her skin, she wasn’t
wearing her gloves. “Oh, look at how scattered I am!” she
exclaimed, aware that she couldn’t exactly pull them out of the
hidden pocket in her skirt. “I must not have put my gloves back on
after I used the facilities. How careless of me.”

“
i find you charming in every
circumstance
,” Edgar Hussey said, appearing out of nowhere like
some kind of ancient imp, bringing a dark curse with him. “I was
about to send a search party for you, you were so long.”

Telaine playfully slapped his wrist. “Now,
Mister Hussey, you would never be so indelicate as to comment on
how long a lady takes to refresh herself. I am sorry to keep you
waiting—oh, I am
so
sorry, I see my partner for this dance.
Will you excuse me, both of you? Mister Hussey, I positively
depend
on you to walk on the verandah with me later.” She
sailed off into the crowd, moving quickly so Hussey couldn’t stop
her, and took Roger Chadwick’s arm.

Chadwick looked down at her in surprise, then
an elated smile spread across his face. “Your Highness,” he
said.

Telaine dimpled at him and watched his fair
face flush. “I know how forward I sound, but I am quite certain you
meant to ask me to dance earlier,” she said, drawing him toward the
center of the room. “And you must know how I adore dancing.”

“Yes—that is, I’ve heard—your Highness, of
course I’m pleased—” he stammered, and Telaine smiled and swept him
a low curtsey as the music began.

Roger Chadwick wasn’t a good dancer, though
he seemed unaware of this. Telaine didn’t care. She was too busy
surveying the room, looking for his father. There, standing near
the stairs. He looked better than she’d remembered, less sagging
and more muscular, but his face was unhealthily bloated and his
skin pasty. Possibly he was still sweating from his meeting from
Steepridge. He didn’t seem self-conscious or guilty, but his gaze
fixed on her longer than necessary. Of course, she was dancing with
his son, but she was uncomfortably aware of the papers nestled in
the hidden pocket of her skirt. There was no way he could know
she’d been in his study.

She extricated herself from young Roger at
the end of their dance, smiling in a way that promised nothing, and
made a circuit of the room. Her shoes were pinching her feet, but
she put on an even brighter smile and vowed to get rid of them once
she returned to Aurilien. The first part of her mission was over,
leaving her feeling tired and achy as if she’d run the stairs of
Harroden Manor from top to bottom ten times without stopping. But
the Princess couldn’t leave so soon, so neither could Telaine.

Concealing her weariness, she flirted and
laughed and dimpled at everyone she knew—that was almost everyone
at the ball, wasn’t it? She knew all of them, and not one of them
knew who she truly was. The thought was enough to make her feel
more cheerful, though it did nothing to ease the needles stabbing
her toes.

Stella Murchison stood near the ice
sculpture, which had started the evening as a swan but now looked
like a molting duck. Edgar Hussey had vanished, so Telaine sailed
over to Stella and said, “I’m having such a delightful time, aren’t
you?”

“Your Highness, I wondered where you’d gone,”
Stella trilled. “Such a long time to use the facilities!”

“Stella!” Telaine said, pretending to be
shocked. “So indelicate!”

“
I
think you had an assignation,”
Stella said. “Tell me, who was it? Not Mister Hussey, he was with
us, and not Roger Chadwick, he’s barely an adult. Stephen
Wainwright?”

“Of course not,” Telaine said. “I don’t know
how you can think such a thing.”

“Richard Argyll? Fortunate for him he didn’t
inherit his father’s ears. Desmond Lowery?”

“Stella!”

Stella laughed her brainless giggle. “You
were gone far too long to simply have been refreshing yourself. I
won’t give up until you tell me who your newest swain is!”

“Can a lady not simply have a moment’s
peace?”

Too late Telaine realized Harroden was
standing about ten feet away. Stella’s high-pitched voice carried,
and Harroden was looking at her with narrowed eyes. She laughed
again, mirroring Stella’s titter. “You’ve found me out,” she said.
“But I won’t tell you who. You’ll have to guess.” She linked her
arm with Stella’s and drew her away into the crowd. Harroden
suspected something, Telaine was certain of it.

She wanted to flee the room, get her
information to the dead drop and get out of Ravensholm, but that
would make her look more guilty. She would simply have to dance and
flirt more outrageously than ever, and emphasize her reputation as
a giddy socialite. Tomorrow…no, this was too important to wait for
the dead drop. She would have to send word of Steepridge’s
involvement to her uncle via telecoder. Then perhaps a trip far
from Ravensholm, far from the capital, was called for. Something to
make Harroden believe she could have nothing to do with spying on
him.

The telecoder office in Ravensholm, a blocky
red brick building with narrow windows, had both public operators
and private booths, an innovation Telaine was grateful for. She
approached one of the empty booths and nodded politely at the
operator. “Good morning,” she said.

“Your Highness,” the man said, bowing. So he
recognized her. That might work in her favor.

“How much for a booth?” she said.

“Seven staves.” The telecoder operator held
out a hand. So, he recognized her, but was unimpressed at dealing
with royalty. Not helpful.

“Expensive,” Telaine said, handing over the
silver coins.

“Don’t think you’ll miss it.” He eyed
Telaine’s expensive summer dress and new hat with calculating
assessment. Telaine resisted the urge to take him down a peg.

“Of course not,” she said airily. “And here’s
a little extra for your trouble.”

He looked suspicious. “What do you want?”

“For you to walk away and give me some
privacy.” Telaine put steel into her words and was gratified to see
him flinch. She smiled pleasantly, and entered the booth and shut
the door firmly behind her.

The telecoder was the latest model, no bigger
than a shoebox, its long brass arm and base plate screwed to a
block of ash stained black and polished to satiny smoothness.
Telaine checked to make sure the pressure-sensitive tape was
aligned properly, then entered the receiver code on the
interlocking wheels at the back. It was a code that would connect
this Device to one of the private telecoders at the palace, manned
night and day by agents whose only job was taking messages from
agents in the field. It was the most secure connection in the
entire kingdom.