Laundry for Quarry House

Quarry House stood above a bend in the river, built from pale stone that looked almost clean in the morning light. It had broad windows, a garden wall and no visible cells.

Pella studied it from the trees.

“My grandfather said the worst rooms were the ones people insisted were comfortable.”

The road below carried linen carts, food deliveries and wagons of prepared paper. The place was a working compound, not a fortress, but guards watched the gate and every visitor's name went into a book.

Cal stayed well back. His face and name were now useful mainly to the people looking for him.

Pella had arranged to join the laundry delivery through a carrier she knew from the river wards. She would enter with the linen, learn where Tomar and Ysra were held and return before they attempted anything larger. Ada would accompany her as a hired hand. Their authorisations were ordinary work tokens, valid for the load they actually carried. The danger lay in their names, not in a forged route.

Cal disliked the plan.

“So do I,” Pella said. “Do you have one involving a door that opens itself?”

He didn't.

The mule stayed with the laundry carrier, who had agreed to look after it and take it to White Net. They left the ink case and most of the evidence with Cal. Ada kept only a small notebook of laundry counts and the blunt testing pin, which she had begun carrying like a reminder rather than a tool.

At the gate, the guard checked the linen bundles. He pressed one with the end of his staff, found nothing more dangerous than damp sheets and waved them through.

Inside, the courtyard smelled of soap, limewash and boiled vegetables. A woman in a plain grey apron directed them towards the washhouse. Her sleeves were rolled above her elbows, revealing arms strong from work.

“New hands?” she asked.

“Temporary,” Pella said.

“Everything here claims to be.”

Her name was Orla. She supervised laundry and helped in the infirmary when there were more damaged hands than the regular attendants could manage. She did not wear the Hall's mark.

Pella waited until they were alone beside the drying frames.

“I'm Tomar's granddaughter.”

Orla stopped folding.

Ada's heart kicked hard against her ribs.

For a long moment, Orla looked towards the door. Then she resumed folding the sheet.

“You should have sent word.”

“Would they have let it reach him?”

“No.”

“Then I came.”

Orla handed Ada one end of the sheet.

“Pull evenly,” she said, as though they were still discussing laundry. “He's in the east workroom after the midday meal. The woman from the fen is with him. Their rooms are locked at night. During the day, there are two guards on the passage.”

“Is he ill?” Pella asked.

“Tired. Angrier than is useful for his appetite. His knees trouble him. He has refused to sign three sheets this week.”

“And Ysra?” Ada asked.

Orla looked at her properly.

“Related?”

“Niece.”

“Her hands are worse than she admits.”

Ada gripped the linen too tightly. Orla eased it from her fingers.

“Not here,” she murmured.

They carried folded sheets through a side passage. Ada counted doors without looking as though she was counting. The east workroom opened onto a small court with a covered service walk leading towards the river. She noted the route because it was actual ground, not because a map had promised it.

At the workroom door, a guard told them to wait. Voices came from inside.

Hald's voice.

Ada went cold.

“You cannot ask an old sheet to hold a new certainty,” Ysra said.

Her aunt sounded thinner than she had at home, but the stubbornness was unmistakable.

“I am asking you to use the method you helped develop,” Hald replied.

“For a temporary release layer. Not a permanent lock.”

“The Chancellor requires stability.”

“He requires obedience to look like stability.”

A chair scraped.

Ada stared at the folded sheets in her arms.

Beside her, Pella's face had become perfectly blank.

The door opened. Hald came out with a clerk and did not look directly at the laundry workers. Ada lowered her eyes just enough, keeping her face turned towards the load. His coat brushed the edge of a sheet as he passed.

Only when his footsteps faded did she breathe.

The clerk remained behind.

Neris.

She looked at Ada, then Pella, then the guard.

“These sheets are for the infirmary,” she said evenly. “I'll take them through.”

The guard let them pass.

Neris closed the next door behind them and put down the linen.

“You have,” she said quietly, “very poor instincts for remaining unrecognised.”

Ada almost laughed from relief.

“Is there a better time?”

“No,” Neris said. “That's the problem.”