Chapter Fourteen

The Morning Donkey was based in a building that could have easily been a bookstore, only the small golden plaque identifying it as the home of a broadsheet publisher. A handful of young men stood outside, going in one by one to collect the newsletters and then carry them out to sell on the streets; a couple, Anastasia noted suddenly, were actually young women dressed as boys. She couldn’t help wondering if their peers, and the broadsheet owners, knew they were employing young woman. And if their parents knew where their daughters worked …

She scowled, dismissing the thought as she pushed open the door and stepped inside. She’d never had to think about having a job before, not when she lived in the lap of luxury, while the girls behind her had few, if any, options for gainful employment. They were better off selling broadsheets than whoring, she told herself as a handful of stolen memories flashed through her mind. It would be easy to go home and forget what they’d done for a living, something a whore never could. Anastasia felt sick just thinking about it. She’d always known her marriage would be arranged, and her father might not let her have any say, but at least she’d be married to just one man. A whore might have a dozen men a day.

A young man sat at the desk, wearing an outfit that reminded her of a court clerk, although a little more gaudy than she would have expected. Clerks preferred to remain unnoticed as they scribbled down proceedings for later scrutiny, ensuring there was a solid record of everything the king and his petitioners said. This one seemed interested in drawing attention, in a manner that puzzled her. It was as if he wanted to be noticed as someone not worth noticing.

“Hello,” he said. His voice was oddly accented, in a manner she’d never heard before. “What can I do for you?”

Anastasia cleared her throat, suddenly unsure how to proceed. “I’ve come about the job.”

The man smiled at her, although there was a sharp edge to it that worried her. “Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“Yes.” Anastasia had no idea if she was telling the truth. “What do I need to do?”

“Wait one moment,” the man said, waving to a handful of seats resting against the far wall. “I’ll speak to the editor.”

Anastasia forced herself to sit down, centring herself as she looked around. The office managed to be both regal and common at once, the furniture a strange combination of elegant and practical and the walls covered with a mixture of portraits and newspaper clippings, the latter covered with spells to keep them intact. Two portraits both claimed to be Lady Emily, she noted, although the artists seemed to disagree on just about everything, save for femininity. One portrait showed a dark-skinned woman with red hair and a small bust, the other showed a pale lady with black hair, an ample bust and a hourglass figure that Anastasia doubted existed in the real world. She’d always been told that portraits were painted to a romantic ideal rather than as a true depiction of the idiosyncratic facial qualities of the person in question, by a tutor who had been fond of trying to sound smarter than he was, but the two in front of her were extreme. They couldn’t both be right, could they? But then, where Lady Emily was concerned, who knew what was truly possible? There could easily be more than one Lady Emily.

The young man returned. “The editor’s compliments, My Lady, and he’d like to see you in his office.”

Anastasia stood, brushed down her dress and allowed him to show her through a door leading into a rear chamber. It was crammed with men and women hammering away on new-fangled typewriters, the sound of the keys blurring together into a single discordant howl. The women didn’t seem to be making any attempt to hide their gender, she noted. Some wore trousers, but they were cut in a manner that revealed their curves … a manner that would give some of the snooty ladies back home a collective heart attack. A handful glanced up to look at her, but most remained focused on their work. They looked capable of hammering out dozens of pages a day.

I should try wearing trousers like that when I get home, she reflected. The older ladies of the court had always irritated her. She’d find it hard to shed a tear for them if Circe turned them all into songbirds. At least their wittering would make a pleasant sound. See how many collapse and die of shock.

She schooled her face into a blank mask as she was shown through a second set of doors, wards brushing against her magic. They were subtle, designed more to protect the inhabitants from magical voyeurs and subtle threats rather than anything blatantly obvious. She suspected they could be overridden easily, if a magician had enough power and skill, but there was no way to do it without tipping off the casters that their wards were no longer working. It was certainly beyond her skill to do so.

“Greetings,” a middle-aged man said, from behind the desk. He was going grey, his body tending to fat in a manner his outfit did nothing to disguise. His clothes looked very similar to the outfit worn by his clerk, save only for a simple golden chain around his neck. She couldn’t tell if he wanted to be underestimated or if he didn’t care what people thought of him. “I am Peregrine, founder and editor. This is Charlotte, my best reporter.”

Anastasia glanced at the woman standing beside the desk. She was tall, easily the tallest woman Anastasia had ever seen, with long gangly limbs, hair tied into two overlong pigtails and an outfit that managed to combine a dozen different styles into one. She wore a yellow hat, a white jacket and a dark tunic, the latter blurring into something that looked like a riding skirt. Her eyes were half-hidden behind a pair of spectacles, but what she could see suggested they were bright and intelligent. Her face was sharply angled, almost masculine. Up close, there was a faint hint of magic surrounding her. Anastasia couldn’t help thinking Charlotte was, in her own way, as formidable as Circe.

“Thank you, sir,” she managed.

“Please, be seated,” Peregrine said. “Would you like a glass of water?”

Anastasia shook her head as she sat. Peregrine sat too, but Charlotte remained standing, her hands folded over her breasts. It was hard to think clearly under the older woman’s scrutiny … it brought back memories of being judged by the ladies of the court, ladies who had very little power over her. Charlotte might have a great deal of power, if she truly was the best reporter he had. If she said no …

She forced herself to look around the office, keeping her thoughts under tight control. The room was both roomy and cramped, the walls lined with wooden filing cabinets and bookshelves; the desk designed, much like her father’s, to allow the owner to store important documents and office supplies within reach. She guessed the protective wards were just as tough as any her father used, designed to inflict a horrific fate on anyone who tried to force open the drawers without permission. There were no windows, the only source of light a lightglobe hovering overhead. It was a simple spell, yet one she couldn’t manage. She had a very long way to go.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

Charlotte spoke, her voice firm. “Why do you want this job?”

Anastasia had no idea what sort of answer would impress them, so she went with the truth. “Money,” she said. “I need money to live.”

Peregrine smiled. “What sort of skills do you have?”

“I can read and write, both New Writing and OldScript … High Speech and Low,” Anastasia said. “I have a little magic and am learning more … I know courtly manners and a few other things …”

Charlotte dropped her hand into her jacket and removed a small notepad and pen, pushing them into Anastasia’s hand. “Take down the following,” she ordered, curtly. She spoke rapidly, thw words coming so quickly they threatened to blur together. “The fundamental problem in reporting is accurate recounting of what actually happened, from the exact words used to the expressions and motions made by everyone involved, and somehow presenting that recounting in a manner that ensures for proper contextualisation as well as comprehension, for failure to understand what has actually happened as well as placing it in context is worse than useless when it comes to understanding what has actually happened and so a vital skill of a reporter involves jotting down everything and then presenting it to the readers in an article …”

She paused. Anastasia was impressed she managed to say so much without taking a breath.

“Got all that?”

Anastasia held out the notepad. “I used New Writing,” she said. “Would you like it translated into OldScript?”

“Please.”

Anastasia took a moment to think, then wrote the overlong sentence out in OldScript. It wasn’t perfect, but it would get the idea across. She silently blessed some of her better tutors for forcing her to work on composition and translation, even though she’d hated them at the time and they hadn’t liked her much either. They’d prepared her well. She promised herself she’d reward them when she got home, if they hadn’t left the kingdom to teach more appreciative students. They’d certainly deserved better students than her.

“Good,” Charlotte said. She took a sheet of paper off the desk and held it out to Anastasia. “Read this. Aloud.”

Anastasia ran her eyes down the paper. The handwriting was poor, but legible. She’d seen worse.

“Lady Dogcatcher’s party, held to celebrate the engagement of her son to Lord Dalmatian’s daughter, was interrupted by a young woman who insisted Master Dogcatcher was the father of her unborn child. The mistress of the house ordered the intruder to be immediately evicted. It was too late, however, to keep Lord Dalmatian’s daughter from insisting on a paternity test to determine if her future husband had indeed fathered a bastard child.”

She looked up. “Is there really a Lady Dogcatcher?”

“You might be surprised,” Charlotte said. She pushed another piece of paper at Anastasia. “Read this. Aloud.”

Anastasia frowned. The paper was written in OldScript. “It has been confirmed that the firstborn son of Lord” – the name was smudged to the point of being unreadable – “I can’t make out the name.”

“Read on,” Charlotte ordered.

“Was actually fathered by his brother. Lord” – the name was smudged again – “was apparently cursed into sterility, and instructed his brother to impregnate her wife.”

She frowned. “Her wife?”

“Whoever wrote that didn’t know the language very well,” Charlotte commented. “You did as well as could be expected.”

“Thank you,” Anastasia said, unsure if it was a compliment or a subtle insult. “Do I pass?”

Peregrine leaned forward. “Do you understand what the job entails?”

“I read the advert,” Anastasia said.

“Your role, if you get the job, will be to serve as Charlotte’s assistant and student. You will support her and she will teach you the skills you’ll need to be a reporter of your own. We don’t expect slavish obedience, but we do expect loyalty. If you’ve been sent here to cause trouble, this is your one chance to walk away.”

Anastasia blinked. “What do you mean?”

Charlotte studied her for a long moment. “We are not popular,” she said, sardonically. “We have enemies. Our reporters have been threatened, tossed out of meetings, turned into toads and a bunch of other horrible fates. Some have vanished, never to be seen again. We do good work here, but not everyone agrees the truth should always come out.”

“Oh,” Anastasia said.

“We don’t lie,” Peregrine said. “Everything we print, we can back up. If we catch you lying to us, you’ll never work in this town again.”

“And if you are working for one of our enemies,” Charlotte added, “this is your last chance to leave.”

“I’m new in town,” Anastasia said. “I don’t have any enemies here.”

Charlotte laughed, an oddly masculine sound. “If you stick around, you’ll have enemies soon enough,” she said. “Trust me on that. You will.”

Peregrine met Anastasia’s eyes. “Still want the job?”

Anastasia nodded. “Yes.”

“Very good,” Peregrine said. “Charlotte …?”

Charlotte nodded. “I’ll take you to my office, fill you in,” she said. “Come along.”

She headed to the door. Anastasia blinked, dazed, then followed her outside and down a short corridor to a smaller office. It clearly wasn’t designed for formal meetings. The desk was placed against a wall, a comfortable sofa rested against another … Charlotte waved to an office junior and ordered team, then motioned Anastasia to sit on the sofa while she sat on the armchair. It was hard to think straight. Everything was moving so quickly.

“I have a talent,” Charlotte said. She studied Anastasia thoughtfully, making no attempt to disguise the way her eyes were wandering over her body. Anastasia felt oddly naked. “I can tell a great deal about someone, very quickly.”

She went on before Anastasia could come up with a response. “You’re clearly of noble blood, at least on one side of the family, and you were raised in an aristocratic household. Young women your age rarely learn OldScript, unless they’re aristocrats or magicians, and you don’t appear to have much magic. And you’re here, despite being a young, pretty and probably fertile woman of noble blood. What does that suggest?”

Her lips quirked. “Your accent suggests you’re not from around here. I’d place your birthplace as being somewhere in the east, perhaps Tarsier. Your mannerisms confirm it. You were raised with a high degree of luxury, but little freedom or responsibility. My guess is that you’re a bastard. Your father was the nobleman, your mother some commoner … you were raised with his legitimate children and given the same kind of education, but lacking a wholly aristocratic bloodline your prospects were few. Your stepmother presumably hated you for daring to exist, so … you decided to come out here to see if you could make a life for yourself. That sound about right?”

Anastasia shrugged. It was hard to imagine her father ever siring a bastard. When did he have time? Perhaps the reason she had no siblings was because her father hadn’t had time to sire them … she didn’t want to think about it. She’d never heard of a bastard being raised with their legitimate half-siblings, but … she knew, now, she’d lived a very sheltered life. For all she knew, half the youngsters at court were bastards.

“Something like that,” she said, vaguely.

“Whoever sent you out here did you no favours,” Charlotte told her. “You simply don’t know anything about life in a free city. You could have wound up with a worse person than me.”

Anastasia remembered Caster and felt cold. “I know.”

Charlotte studied her for a long moment, Anastasia forced herself to look back. Charlotte had seen too much of the truth, even if she’d drawn the wrong conclusions. Anastasia had to admire her perceptiveness … it would be dangerous, perhaps impossible, to lie to such a person. And yet … the curse tightened its grip, just for a second. It was difficult to know what would happen if Charlotte deduced the entire truth. Would the curse kill her even though she hadn’t crossed the line?

“Good,” Charlotte said. “I wasn’t kidding when I said we had enemies. You will become a target because we work to expose the truth. I’ve been beaten and transformed and nearly killed in the course of my duties. The same could happen to you, or worse. If you want to back out now, go.”

“I need something to do,” Anastasia said. She needed money. She also needed skills. “And I can do this.”

“Very good.” Charlotte said. She straightened. “Where are you staying?”

“The Dog and Duck,” Anastasia said.

“Too expensive,” Charlotte said, dismissively. “You’ll be my apprentice, so you’ll be rooming with me. Listen to what I tell you, ask questions in private, practice the skills I’ll teach you whenever you have a free moment. Don’t contradict me in public, don’t talk about me with anyone else, don’t reveal my sources … if you develop sources of your own, and you will, I expect you to keep me informed as long as I’m responsible for you. Understand?”

“I think so,” Anastasia said. “Why … why do I need to share my sources with you?”

“The law is very clear that truth is an absolute defence.” Charlotte removed her glasses, allowing her gaze to bore into Anastasia’s. “Whatever we print is legal, as long as it is true. If someone lies to us and we believe them, we’ll be the ones in trouble. We’ll be put in the stocks and I mean that literally. Everything has to be checked and checked again, because some people do try to feed us lies in hopes we’ll make fools of ourselves. Our reputation for truth is all that stands behind us and people using our special editions to wipe their rears after going to the toilet. I will not let my apprentice threaten our credibility.”

“I understand,” Anastasia said. “But what if it’s an innocent mistake?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Charlotte said. “No matter how innocent, they’ll pounce. They’ll say we did it on purpose, or that we were foolish enough to be fooled, and either way our credibility will be undermined. We dare not make too many mistakes. Even one could easily be disastrous.”

Her lips twisted into a humourless smile. “This is your one chance to make a name for yourself,” she said. “But your name could easily wind up becoming a byword for foolishness instead.”