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The camp was built just outside of Greythorne Village, a makeshift collection of tents to house the Achlevan refugee families who’d come to Greythorne looking for work. Before their capital was destroyed and their country went to war with itself, they were healers, merchants, craftsmen, scholars . . . Now they were working the hardest, most backbreaking jobs Renalt had to offer to keep their families fed.
Things were slightly better in Greythorne than in other communities of Renalt. The fertile fields were well suited to growing flax for linen and raising sheep for wool, and over the decades, these advantages had given way to a thriving textile industry. But Greythorne’s population was small, and it had always struggled to keep the production on pace with the demand. But despite the increased output that came with extra help at the spinning wheels and beside the coloring vats, the residents of Greythorne Village remained cold and unwelcoming toward their new neighbors. Prejudice is more resilient than the strongest dye; the villagers’ hands were now free of callus and stain, but their hearts were not.
Inside the uneasy camp, my cart and I were painfully conspicuous.
In front of one sputtering fire, a listless mother rocked a squalling infant. At another, a little boy tapped a rock with a stick in a slow, lethargic rhythm. A man of indeterminate age and drooping shoulders dragged a bundle of damp firewood between the tents while a dog with patchy fur and protruding ribs panted after him.
Not one year ago, they’d lived behind Achlev’s walls, untouched by raging tempests or invading armies, by fire or famine or the whims of the ferocious sea. I wasn’t the one who had destroyed the city, but I’d tried to stop the destruction and failed. And the instability that came afterward, stoked by the conquest-minded Dominic Castillion, pitted nobleman against nobleman, city against city, with the innocent populace caught in between.
There was guilt to be had in that, and penance to be paid.
I stopped the cart in the center of the camp and unhitched it from Madrona while several pairs of mistrustful, uneasy eyes watched me from the tents.
“There’re apples in here,” I announced to the air. “And some grain; cheeses, too.” When no one responded, I took Madrona’s reins. “Take whatever you need,” I said, backing slowly down the path to the village.
“You shouldn’t feed ’em,” a voice said next to me. “They’re strays. Feed ’em once; you’ll never be rid of ’em. Unseemly, it is, seein’ a young Renaltan lady like you out alone this time of night, in such a place.” She eyed my trousers and boots. “And dressed in such a way.”
“And you are?” I asked with as much cordiality as I could muster.
“Lister. Prudence Lister.”
“You’re out rather late yourself, are you not?”
The woman grunted, shouldering a pole with a stringer of small fish dangling on its end. “If my circumstances was different, I’d not be caught dead out here. But a woman’s got to eat. And now that old Mercer’s given my job away to these lazy Achlevan loiter-sacks”—she spat on the ground—“I fish or I starve, simple as that.”
“I’m not sure what you—”
“I been Mercer’s best dyer for well on thirty year before he cast me aside for that lot.” She jerked her head toward the camp behind us. “He shut down my old dyeworks, too; said with the Achlevan mordant techniques, we don’t have to use urine no more! How is all that fancy fabric gonna keep its color if ain’t no pee used to set it? Bah!” She held up one knobby hand, inspecting it in the moonlight. “My hands is barely stained no more,” she said ruefully. Then, “You’re lucky I came by when I did, to walk you to the village so as you don’t come across any more Achlevan miscreants. Where you headed, anyway, girl?”
“Mercer’s, actually,” I said smoothly. “To pick up an order.”
Her mouth puckered as if she had tasted something sour. “Mistake,” she said gruffly. “Mercer’s cloth is no good anymore. You don’t know what kind of filth those Achlevan hands will have left on it—”
“Not urine, at least.” My tone was clipped. “Good night, Mrs. Lister.”
She gave me the same glassy-eyed gape as the gudgeon at the end of her pole. Without another word, Madrona and I left her by the well at the center of the village square and continued down the road toward the clothier’s textile shop. When I looked again, she was gone.
It was now several hours past the setting of the sun, and most of the shops had shuttered for the night, the windows dark, the buildings brooding. I was surprised to see lights winking in the windows of the old millhouse on the outskirts of town; it had sat empty for ages, ever since a new mill had been built farther up the River Urso.
I tied Madrona up at the gate outside Gilbert Mercer’s shop before making my way up the walk to pound at the door. A voice came from the other side, “We’re closed!”
“Mr. Mercer,” I called, “I’ve come to pick up the cape I commissioned? I’ve brought the money I owe.”
At that, the locks began to jingle and the door swung open. Gilbert Mercer was a man of late middling age dressed in fine
fabric stretched too tight across his midsection, his cheeks glowing a rosy color that gave him a jolly appearance but probably meant he drank too much.
“Ah, my lady! I was beginning to wonder if you’d show! I finished your project weeks ago.”
“My apologies, Mr. Mercer, for the lateness, both in my coming and of the hour. I hope it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
He patted my hands. “Nonsense, nonsense! No inconvenience. It’s always a pleasure to work with your family, my dearest Princess.”
“You were my mother’s favorite, you know. She’d wait by the window for your parcels; she swore by your fabric, refused to sew with anything else.”
“She was a treasure, your mother,” Mercer said fondly. “Taken from us too soon, Empyrea keep her.”
My breath hitched. “Yes. She was.”
