Page 27 of Claiming the Tower
July 4th t the Ministry
Hereswith kept a lid on her rage until she was in her office. But of course, part of the reason for her rage was that she had been sent to her office, like a small child sent to bed without supper. Her seniors— she certainly would not dignify them with the term superiors— had done so, and they had done so with no particular care.
It would be one thing to be sent off to find some papers, to decorously get her out of the way. That way she’d stop asking pointed questions no one wanted to answer. Also, she suspected, questions no one could actually answer. That was the sort of growing problem that was about to become an avalanche. But they hadn’t even done her the courtesy of a covering story.
Marcus had stayed, though she did not actually give good odds at him being in the meeting too much longer. But he might get a little more information where he was, and every seed and drop mattered. Now she went and stood at the window, her back to the door. Of course, it was locked and only a handful of people could open it without her agreement. Marcus among them, of course, and Magister Helmsman, senior minister in the department.
Magister Helmsman, of course, was still seated at the table with the three Council Members, four of the senior Ministry staff, and the poor young woman who was utterly terrified she was going to be writing at the wrong moment. Hereswith would have to check with Mistress Yelton when she was calmer and make sure she was all right. She wasn’t long out of her apprenticeship and not used to the personalities involved at this level.
Hereswith, on the other hand, had largely known what to expect. And that was a fair bit of why she was furious. The idiocy, the small-mindedness of it, that had become more and more overwhelming the last week or so. She wondered, in the back of her mind, whether that was because of the changes at home. Papa was decidedly happy, and Bess was relaxing into how things were done.
For the first time in some years, Hereswith felt she could trust everything would be all right at home. Or if there was a problem, it would be sensibly dealt with. The staff were excellent, and most of them had been there for years and years, but that had sometimes meant they looked to Papa for an answer. Which was fine, except when the concern involved Papa himself. With Bess there, she felt more sure there wasn’t a looming problem, like an iceberg beneath the waterline.
None of this helped her current temper. She kept making herself look out the window. Hereswith had other work to do; she always did. There was the routine paperwork. Her desk had a stack of receipts that needed to be properly filed, and there was a supper party to arrange in three weeks. That one would require delicate planning, both in the arrangements and in the conversation, since two of the necessary parties could not abide each other. Hereswith would not ordinarily have invited them both on the same night, but in this case, needs must. She would rise to the occasion. There was no alternative.
She was still standing there, still angry, when there was a careful repeated knock at the door. Marcus, he always knocked three and four quick little raps. “Come.”
As Hereswith turned to face him, he slipped in, as if he were also in hiding. “They sent me out as well.” He coughed. “Are you going to take on chatting with Mistress Yelton, or shall I?”
“Best be me. She’s still not sure what to make of you.” Hereswith forced herself to open her hands and to make all the show of calm. Sometimes that worked, the appearance leading to the reality. “Put the kettle on, would you?”
“How long do you think we have?” Marcus moved to the small table tucked in the corner, away from the door, and got the kettle going. Hereswith made a point of filling it every morning, because the chances of needing a cup urgently were high enough on the average day. And this was not the average day.
“Before someone calls us— me, mostly— in and scolds me?” Hereswith tilted her head. She had not been out of turn. That was the thing. The meetings with the Council Members in attendance were supposed to be direct and forthright. They, far more than most work this department did, were on the same side. Albion’s side.
“Me as well. That I don’t have you under better control. Not that I’d try. I have more sense.” Now the kettle was going. He came over to the desk, gesturing at the chair. He wouldn’t sit until she did. That was how the etiquette dance went. Hereswith wanted to pace, she wanted to be moving. Well, she wanted to kick something, not that it would do anyone any good, including her toes. But Marcus obviously wanted to sit, so she did. She wasn’t angry at him.
“Control.” Hereswith couldn’t help looking across, down to where the meeting had been, through a dozen walls. “None of them had any.”
It made Marcus cough. “Now that you put it that way, no. The Council Members did, but of course you’d expect that. What’s your theory on why everyone’s so—” He flipped his hand over.
Hereswith shook her head. “Besides the fact it is increasingly obvious to anyone vaguely literate that the whole mess is being horrendously managed? I don’t know.” There had been a letter in the Times yesterday, about how badly made the most basic tools and supplies were, along with reports that made it sound as if the war were going well, when it seemed anything but. Hereswith was not a military strategist, but she had learned long ago to listen for the subtle hints, such as more troops being sent out in a flurry of apparent desperation, and the gestures trying to pull covers over every detail.
The kettle sang, and Marcus went to pour the water into the pot, bringing it back on the small tray with two cups. “What can we do, together, to improve things? I wondered if it might be time to take things to Halley.” Magister Halley normally was above this sort of thing. He was senior in the department in terms of influence and time served, but with a somewhat ambiguous level of actual control.
If they went to him, he would take notice, and there would be consequences. On the other hand, nothing about that meant those consequences would be what Hereswith and Marcus might prefer. They could be exiled from the current work, or the next thing to it. Exile, in that case, would involve all the most tedious hostessing. That was the people who needed to be kept out of trouble from whatever embassy or conglomeration, none of the work that required intelligence or real skill.
Hereswith shook her head, minutely, and Marcus sighed. “You’re right. I wish you weren’t.” Then he snorted, amused at himself. “Bet they wish the same thing. They just don’t have the courage to say it.”
“Thank you for the compliment, Marcus. But it does us no good, does it?” Before Hereswtih could say anything else, there was a voice out in the hallway, clear and loud enough to carry. Charmed to carry, Hereswtih was suddenly certain.
“Thank you, sir. No, I know exactly where I wish to be.” Then that voice turned sharp, a razor’s edge. “Lucius Ambrose Rawlings, if you do not leave off this moment, you know what will happen.” It was a perfectly placed threat, the sort that made it clear she would go on and become rapidly more specific and well-amplified, word by word.
Marcus stood up, nearly knocking his chair over in his haste, before he glanced at Hereswith. It was her office. She flicked her fingers at the warding, and Marcus opened the door a second after Council Member Ventry knocked.
“So prompt. May I have a moment of your time, Magistra Rowan?”
Hereswith had stood, more or less out of sheer self-preservation. She nodded once. “Of course, Council Member. Tea? It’s just finished steeping.” It was not the best blend. That was at home, where Hereswith was currently vastly enjoying what Bess had brought home last week, and more planned for tomorrow’s shopping. But it was a serviceable blend, inoffensive to well-trained palates.
“Yes, please.” She considered, then eyed Marcus. “You may stay. You demonstrated good sense earlier.” Magistra Ventry was wearing a deep blue-black today, silk like pooled ink with a shimmer to it. Marcus bowed, more out of instinct— or perhaps decorous terror— than anything else, and closed the door. In Magister Norton’s face. Marcus then came over and poured out the two cups of tea. Hereswith only had the two chairs here, so he retreated to the chair along the wall, leaving the desk and seating for the women.
“Now.” Magistra Ventry took a sip from her cup, nodded once, and went on. “What did they not want you to say?”
Hereswith took a breath, doing her best to gather her thoughts. “Several points, magistra. First, that our every opportunity to be of use has been hampered by a lack of information or communication. Based on the information we have, that seems to be entirely the way the Secretary of War is handling things. It is not some particular jab at this department or at this Ministry. But it is increasing.”
“Quite.” Magistra Ventry nodded again, not giving more than that away, not yet. “And?”
“I have begun to wonder if there is some instruction, from the highest levels of our Ministry, to avoid certain points.” She looked up, daring to meet the older woman’s eyes for a moment, before looking back down at her desk. “I do not have any evidence to prove it.” Marcus, she was sure, was doing his best to bite his tongue to keep from speaking. She hadn’t mentioned this to him. “A rot in the system somewhere.”
