Page 31
“You bargain with their health,” he says.
“I bargain with my labor. Their health is what makes it valuable.”
His gaze moves across the room. The lower floor holds no obvious danger once the debris is cleared, and we both know it. His objection is not the structure alone. A human has entered his lord’s house, secured working space, and begun issuing terms before the ceremonial dust has left her clothing.
He dislikes me on principle.
Principles become flexible when breathing hurts.
“The guards clear the lower floor only,” he says. “You remain away from the gallery and the damaged wall.”
“Until a builder approves them.”
“Until I approve them.”
“After a builder examines them.”
Grolm bares the edges of his teeth. “Agreed.”
He turns and begins issuing orders.
Within the hour, six guards carry the ruined planters through the southern service entrance. Dead metallic stems crack and scatter bronze fragments across the floor. Broken shelves follow. Grolm stations himself near the damaged stair as if I might climb it the instant his back turns.
I find a workbench beneath the dust and begin scrubbing.
The wood is dark, scarred, and solid. Three washings reveal pale mineral stains across its surface. I am scraping hardened residue from one corner when a human woman enters carrying a bundle of folded linens.
She is willowy, with light brown hair escaping its braid in wisps. Skin made pale by the spire’s lower levels contrasts with her faded blue dress. Her pale eyes take in the guards, debris, and half-cleaned bench before settling on me.
“Lady Beatrix?”
“Beatrix.”
She approaches carefully. “I am Miana Vence, head laundress. These were removed from the guest rooms last season. They are too worn for household use but clean enough for workcloths.”
She places the linens on the bench.
The bundle contains more cloth than chance would provide. “Who told you I needed them?”
“No one.”
Her fingers turn a short length of golden wire into a loop. She keeps the movement low beside her skirt, partly hidden from the guards.
“The lower servants heard the Council had assigned an apothecary to House Obsidius,” she continues. “Some hoped that meant medicines would be available without formal requests.”
“They will be, once I have supplies.”
Miana glances toward Grolm. He is occupied directing a guard with a cracked planter.
“Dark elf servants from the northern spires trade off-world herbs beneath the lower market awnings,” she says quietly. “They arrive after the second meal bell, when patrols change. A servant wearing copper thread carries goligan oil. Another trades dried numiscu and rirzed, though she stores them too close together for my comfort.”
“You know their houses?”
“I know their laundry marks.”
Information travels through cloth as readily as conversation. Blood, medicinal stains, unfamiliar perfume, and red dust from a district no servant was meant to visit all survive until Miana’s workers wash them away.
“Can you tell them I will trade here once the room is safe?”
