Citadels of Fire

by L.K. Hill

  Chapter 17

  “Inga, watch out!”

  Inga stepped to the side and a heavy wooden bucket flew past her head, barely missing it. She glared upward.

  “Sorry,” the boy called as he passed. One of Bogdan’s apprentices, his mess of straw that passed for hair and skinny limbs made him look like a rag doll. He lowered a bucket by rope to be filled and heaved up to the kitchen on the second floor.

  It had been a long time since the extra kitchens were needed, but tonight the tsar held a ball for the Khan of Kasimov. The palace rooms were filled to bursting with important boyars, emissaries, ambassadors from foreign lands, and those who’d been called back from exile.

  In addition, noble families now arrived from all over Russia. Many only arrived an hour before. Tonight promised to be a celebration unlike any before, and no one wanted to be left out.

  No one knew where the newcomers would bed down for the night. Someone suggested turning the cathedrals into makeshift inns. The tsar put an end to that right away, saying it would be sacrilegious. Yehvah said it didn’t matter. The party would last all night anyway. In the morning, the visitors would simply drive home.

  However, extra people, with more arriving by the hour, meant more food must be prepared. The tsar would be mortified if his servants—and thus he—could not provide food for his guests. Every available hand had been called in to help, and the unused kitchens were dusted out and their fires lit. Inga had been running since daybreak.

  The guests would soon convene in the great hall for entertainment. Supper was only a few hours away, and they still had a whole day’s worth of preparation to be done.

  Inga opened her mouth to reprimand the ragdoll apprentice. Yehvah’s reprieve came first. “Be careful, Alexei. We already have too much to do and not enough hands to do it. We don’t need you knocking anyone out with your carelessness.”

  “Yes, Yehvah.” The boy sounded bored. A second, dark-haired boy with a noticeable limp stumbled in with a bucket of water from the well. Without looking around, he poured his water into Alexei’s bucket. Inga stepped back to keep her shoes dry. Without a word, the dark-haired boy limped out again, and Alexei heaved the bucket upward.

  “Inga, come,” Yehvah commanded.

  Without a word, Inga followed Yehvah out of the kitchen. She'd served with Yehvah long enough to know the tone of her voice brooked no argument. Inga did not ask where they were going. When they got there Yehvah would explain. Asking foolish questions would only anger the older woman.

  They walked briskly through the corridors, dodging other servants, each about their tasks with as much rigor as the kitchen staff. The palace servants had been around long enough to avoid running into each other. Yehvah led Inga out to the courtyard. In one corner, near the palace wall, stood a dozen or so women, most of whom she recognized. None of the others were kitchen maids, but many served in other areas. They were all within a few years of her age and clustered in groups, whispering or milling around.

  “What’s this, Yehvah?”

  Yehvah searched the courtyard, going up and down on her tiptoes as her gaze swept back and forth. “The head clerk wanted me to gather all the girls in the palace who are about your age. He’s going to inspect you.”

  “For what?”

  Yehvah stopped her search and gazed at Inga. She looked troubled. “I don’t know. He only said to bring everyone here in twenty minutes. I brought you last, to keep you from your duties as little as possible. Ah, there he is. Stay with the others. I’m going to find out what this is all about.”

  Yehvah marched across the courtyard toward the head clerk, who had entered with his retinue. Inga pitied the man. She wouldn’t want Yehvah coming at her looking like that. Inga feared the head clerk. For all Yehvah’s show of aggression, Inga knew Yehvah feared him too.

  With a sigh, Inga glanced around. None of the other women seemed to want to speak to her, so she walked to the palace wall and leaned against the cool stone, grateful for the respite. Shutting her eyes, she laid her head against the wall, but then decided it was too dangerous—she might fall asleep standing up, and she still had a long night ahead of her. She yawned and stared straight ahead. Movement in the corner of her vision caught her attention.

  Taras and Nikolai walked into the courtyard, side by side. They gazed in the opposite direction, watching as more people arrived. Nikolai pointed, saying something Inga couldn’t hear, and both men laughed.

  Then they turned, surveying the courtyard. Taras’s gaze fell on Inga. Her stomach constricted. He stared at her, then leaned over and said something to Nikolai. Nikolai glanced at Inga and nodded, then went back to watching the other side of the courtyard. Taras, on the other hand, walked toward her.

  Inga glanced around to be certain he was looking at her. No one else stood anywhere near, and he walked toward her in a straight line.

  “Inga,” he stopped in front of her. “May I speak to you for a moment?”

  Yehvah still stood across the courtyard engaged in what looked to be a lively and heated discussion with the head clerk. Inga wondered if she’d ever have that kind of nerve. The other women still milled around, waiting for something to happen.

  “I think I must stay in Yehvah’s line of vision, but we can walk away from the group.”

  He nodded and turned, and she fell into step beside him.

  “Remember when we met yesterday and I thought I knew you from somewhere?”

  She nodded.

  “It took Nikolai reminding me, but I remember where I know you from.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “The snowball incident.”

  She faced him, but had trouble meeting his gaze. She glanced at his eyes. “Yes.”

  “You have no idea how badly I felt about that. I truly had no idea of what Sergei had done. I wanted to apologize, but no one would let me near you.”

  The last statement made Inga forget to be bashful. He wanted to apologize?

  “It was . . . a long time ago, my lord.”

  He nodded. “I know but . . . if you only knew, if only I could convey to you how long I thought about it, even after my family left. I felt horrible. I suppose I still do. Let me apologize now.”

  Inga shook her head, taking a step back from him. “My lord, there is no need—”

  “There is.”

  “No. My lord Taras,” she said sternly, “I am a servant. You are a boyar. You can do whatever you want to me, and need not apologize.”

  His eyes widened in surprise. Then he looked at the ground, laughed without humor and scratched the back of his head.

  “Inga,” he said quietly. “That’s simply not true.”

  “It is true here,” she glanced at the Wall and back to Taras.

  His penetrating gaze bored into hers until she dropped her eyes.

  “Perhaps you are a servant, but you are also a human being. Even if it’s not socially sound, for myself, for my own soul, I need to apologize to you. All right?”

  She nodded, not sure what else to do.

  “I was raised to make amends for things, Inga. That’s what I want to do.”

  “That’s not necessary, my lord.”

  He put up his hands. “It may not be necessary for you. It is for me. How can I make things right? Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Inga shook her head again. She couldn’t think of anything on the spot. Even if she could, she would not be able to take it from him. Even this conversation bordered on improper. He said nothing for a time, and she peeked up at him. He stared down at her, and she could almost see his mind working. Finally, he smiled.

  “Then let us leave it open-ended. If you ever need anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to ask. I will help any way I can, until I feel my amends have been made.”

  He glanced over her shoulder. “Yehvah is coming. You’d

  better go.”

  Inga looked behind her. Yehvah had spotted the two of them. Her eyes had narrowed considerably. Taras already m
oved away from her, toward Nikolai.

  Inga moved back toward the group of women, and Yehvah met her in the space between.

  “What was that about?”

  “He . . . wanted to ask me a question.” Inga didn’t know why she lied. She sensed Yehvah would not like the truth.

  “What did he ask?”

  “I need all the young ladies to stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder, facing me," the Head Clerk's voice saved Inga from having to have to answer Yehvah's question. "Chins up, shoulders back, stand up straight. Yes, that’s it. . ..”

  Inga hurried forward and hooked herself on to the end of the line. Yehvah stood in front of her, watching the head clerk with guarded eyes. People hurrying through the courtyard, including boyars and newly-arrived partygoers, stopped to watch. Taras and Nikolai inched forward to observe the scene.

  The head clerk walked down the row, inspecting each woman and asking questions. “What do you do? Seamstress? Seamstresses have strong fingers, not arms. You? Lady-in-waiting? I don’t suppose your mistress has you do much manual labor? What about you? I suppose you could do, though you’re not much to look at, are you?”

  He picked out two women near the end of the line. One worked as a laundress, turning the massive press all day. The other, the daughter of a stable hand who often helped her father in his work. Next, he came to Inga. Yehvah stepped closer to her.

  “And what do you do, my dear?”

  “I work mostly in the kitchens, my lord.”

  “One of yours, Yehvah?”

  “Yes, my lord, and I will be needing her desperately for the next few hours.”

  He looked Inga up and down. “Take off your scarf, woman.”

  Inga blinked. When she didn’t move, the clerk reached behind her and yanked her head scarf off with one rough tug.

  Inga had a lot of hair. It was fair--though not so much as her skin--and she’d never cut it. Full and thick, it curled naturally at the ends and up near her forehead. She always wore her platok, except when she slept. She even wore it in the bath, unless she had to wash her hair. Without it, here in a public courtyard, she felt naked.

  As soon as the clerk saw her hair he shook his head. “No Yehvah, she’s perfect. I’ll take her, too.”

  “My lord—”

  “She’s the prettiest woman here, and she works in the kitchens, so she has strong arms. She’s exactly what I am looking for. I only wish there were three more like her.”

  “My lord, we are already shorthanded—”

  “You can take someone from another place to fill your kitchens, woman.”

  “It’s difficult work, my lord. No one who hasn’t done it before can simply. . . start.”

  “Exactly. Difficult work, so she will do well in the ballroom tonight.”

  Inga gasped. Her heart pounded. Yehvah did not object because she needed Inga in the kitchens tonight. She objected because she feared what was happening. Inga didn't entirely understand why, but she recognized fear in the wrinkles around Yehvah’s eyes.

  “My lord,” Yehvah’s voice got louder, “she is under my stewardship. You cannot simply—”

  Inga didn’t see the clerk’s hand move. It cracked loudly when it struck Yehvah’s cheek.

  “My authority far exceeds yours, maid, and you will do as you are told. This young woman, along with those two, will serve in the Great Hall tonight. We have so many guests that we are short of servants, and we need people who are both beautiful and strong to carry heavy platters without dropping them.”

  The slap forced Yehvah’s head around, and now she stood looking at the ground, chest heaving, back slightly bent from the force of the blow.

  Inga stepped toward Yehvah. She put one hand on Yehvah’s upper arm. “Please, my lord. I am happy to serve tonight.”

  The clerk blinked as though noticing her for the first time. “Of course you are. You see?” He glared at Yehvah again. “At least your girls know their place. You ought to take a lesson from them.” He turned, surveying the courtyard with an upturned nose. “Have all three girls report to the Master of Tailors within the hour. They need to be fitted for their livery.”

  “Might I make one request, my lord?” It was Yehvah again. The clerk turned very slowly, looking shocked to his toenails that she'd spoken again. “I think I am entitled.”

  “You are entitled to whatever I say you are entitled to.” He huffed out a breath. “Very well, state your . . . request.”

  “Let her hair stay covered.”

  His eyebrows knitted together. He looked from Yehvah to Inga and back again. “What difference does—?”

  “Please, my lord. You are taking my servant from me for the evening. All I ask is she be allowed to keep her hair covered. You may cover it with whatever you wish—whatever is most becoming. I only ask that it remain unseen.”

  The clerk turned his body fully to Yehvah and made a mocking bow. “We’ll do our best.”

  He practically bounced out of the courtyard.

  Yehvah had not moved during the exchange. She now raised her voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “Back to your tasks.”

  The line of un-chosen women immediately dispersed.

  Inga looked around. Two kinds of boyars peopled the Russian court: those who'd stopped and, when the clerk slapped Yehvah, quietly vacated the awkward situation, pretending they had seen nothing; the other type stayed after the backhand, smiling appreciatively, as if the insubordinate servant had gotten what she deserved.

  As even they lost interest and wandered away, Inga glanced to her right. Nikolai and Taras still stood close by. Taras gazed at her, a mixture of concern and confusion on his face. Nikolai peered at Yehvah with what Inga thought was concern, though she must have imagined that.

  When everyone else had gone, Nikolai put his hand on Taras’s shoulder and said something, jerking his head toward the opposite side of the courtyard. Taras allowed Nikolai to guide him away.

  Inga and Yehvah found themselves miraculously alone in the courtyard. Inga went around behind Yehvah and put her arms around the older woman’s shoulders, hugging her tight.

  “Don’t worry, Yehvah. I’ll be fine.”

  Yehvah wiped a tear from her own cheek. “It’s not tonight I’m worried about, Inga. You are very capable of this. It’s only that . . .”

  “I know,” Inga whispered. “I know.”