by M K Hutchins
I tasted Lady Sulat’s food. The dish for my ankle came not long thereafter, around sunset—pickled garlic-stuffed cherries. Cherries targeted muscles, whole garlic targeted the foot, and the sour would diminish my pain. Bright, acidic flavors burst into my mouth, backed up by the fruit’s sweetness and the garlic’s spiciness. The sour coursed past my stomach and straight to my ankle. It wrapped itself around the injury, cooled it, limbered the flesh, and eased the pain. Sorrel was every bit a chef.
His words echoed in my head: She’ll be my wife and so I’m going to cherish her.
We could have been so happy together. Instead, my brilliant chef settled for an unskilled girl who possessed nothing but a pretty smile. Why the Ancestors didn’t see fit to scourge Dami with boils, I couldn’t understand. Maybe I should have prayed longer.
As the pain eased, my head cleared. Why was I moping? Sorrel wasn’t married yet.
I couldn’t tell him the truth. I’d always be Dami to him. So I’d just have to make him love Dami.
And for that, I needed to prove my innocence—fast. He wouldn’t glance at me while he thought me a poisoner. But once Fir was arrested, Sorrel and I would cook together. He’d see my skills. We’d laugh, like we’d both imagined. We’d argue over whether juniper berries or rosehips were better, and before his wedding, he’d cheerfully say goodbye to his curvy fiancée.
I silently prayed I’d find evidence against the guilty parties quickly. And that proving myself would be enough to save my life and my marriage.
“Moss,” I said. “If you wanted to break into Lord Torut’s apartments, how would you do it?”
Osem cut in. “Dami. You said you weren’t going to try that.”
“I’m going to try everything I can.”
“You hurt your ankle!” She clenched her hands in her skirt, knuckles whitening.
I stood to prove I could and gritted my teeth. Sorrel had taken the edge off the pain, but the pressure made it throb. I kept my weight on my good foot and forced a smile. “I’m not going to sit here and wait for my trial.”
“What did that cook feed you?” Osem demanded. “Some kind of crazy-of-mind recipe?”
Nisaat entered then, her emerald green skirt swishing elegantly. She paused and glanced nervously at the gathering. “Dami? Might I have a word alone?”
“We all know.” Osem crossed her arms. “Lord Torut left, didn’t he?”
Nisaat swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected anyone else. “I... I came to give my cousin’s regards, that’s all.”
She left as quickly as she’d come.
Osem turned to me, eyes hard. “This is idiocy. You don’t have a real plan. You’ll get yourself captured.”
“Idiocy would be waiting for my execution. I don’t have time to spare. The more avenues I investigate, the better my chance of finding something.”
Moss leaned back in his chair, greatly entertained.
“At least execution is quick.” Osem’s hands quivered.
I’d never asked for the details of the attack that wiped out her family, but staring into her haunted eyes, I couldn’t believe they’d joined their Ancestors in a painless fashion.
“Osem,” I said softly. “I’ll be careful. I promise.”
“Being careful isn’t the same as not being caught, and you can’t promise that.” Her voice cracked on the last word.
I sat back down, shifting in my seat. I had no gift for calming words—only calming food.
Moss polished his bolas on his shirt. “New pine boughs are coming in soon for the mattresses. To sneak into Lord Torut’s, I’d gather myself a sackful of branches and pretend to have a delivery. There’s a garden with some spruce trees.”
I knew that wild garden well—it was near the kitchens’ back door.
“Why are you encouraging her?!” Osem demanded.
Moss shrugged. “Maybe she’ll find something interesting. And if not, and she’s caught, she’s right. What worse could happen?”
“The Palace Guard could haul her to her some horrible cell!”
“Ah, they’d have to give her up for the trial, or Lady Sulat will sue Captain Gano for interfering with justice.”
“So the guard could torture her for a week and a half, then give her up to die.” Osem turned to me, eyes fierce and protective. “Dami, I’ll have no part in this.”
“Then you should leave. Because I have to go.” I didn’t know how to convince her that the risk merited the reward.
Osem gaped at me as if I’d run her through with a spear. Tears rimmed her eyes. “Fine! Go get yourself mutilated!”
She ran out of the room.
“Osem!” I called, but she was gone.
That evening, Moss gathered the boughs for me to spare my ankle. Did he want me to live, or was he just gathering information for Lady Sulat? I didn’t know and it didn’t matter. I snatched a purple skirt with a bleached-out bear to mark me as King Alder’s servant. I’d tell Lord Torut’s servants that His Majesty had extra boughs from the first shipment and told me to deliver them here. A tad convoluted, but I couldn’t dress up as a servant of Lord Torut’s—his real servants would know I wasn’t one of them.
I clutched the spruce boughs and strolled straight across the cool, dark lawn. I tried not to limp on my tightly-bound ankle. Act like you belong there, Moss had told me. Actually accompanying me would look strange, so he sat praying nearby on a bench outside the Royal Shrine to the Fathers and Mothers of our nation—a perfectly respectable thing to do, whatever the hour might be.
My ankle flared as I worked my way up the stairs. The door servant, illuminated by a single torch in a sconce, said nothing.
“The first shipment of pine boughs arrived early. These are leftovers from—”
The young woman yawned and opened the door for me. “Lord Torut’s room is through the carved lattice screen on the long wall of his front room.”
I blinked. I’d half expected her to call the Palace Guard. Then I remembered myself and hurried inside. She kept the door open long enough for me to set the boughs down and light a lamp from the torch’s flames.
I didn’t see any other servants or guards. I guess when their master disappeared, they enjoyed an evening off, too. Or perhaps they attended him in Askan-Wod.
I dumped the boughs in Lord Torut’s bedroom, then quickly searched his front room. The cabinet against the wall, carved with cougars and ferns, seemed promising, but the only unlocked drawer held liquor. Despite the cabinet’s high polish, a fusty, weathered-wood smell clung to the interior. I checked under the liquor but found no hidden drawer. How long could I search before arousing the door servant’s suspicions?
Trying to force the locks would make a ruckus. I moved to the writing desk but froze when I heard voices outside. I scurried into the bedroom, closed the door, and extinguished my lamp.
The front door creaked open as I hid behind the mattress and freshly-cut boughs. I bit my lip and cursed myself for panicking. I should have pretended to be at my task, lamp lit. Not that I could relight it now.
“Welcome home, Blue Lord Torut. Welcome, Purple Lord King Alder.”
My marrow chilled. I carefully untied my skirt and stuffed it under the mattress. Better to be underdressed than dressed to my condemnation. The door closed again, and two bodies settled themselves in the front room. At least the lazy servant hadn’t mentioned me.
“... dunno why we have t’ stay in,” said a slurred, raspy voice.
All right. Maybe the door servant realized her drunk master wouldn’t care or remember if she mentioned me.
“I can’t go traipsing about Askan-Wod with you, can I? It’s not safe, or dignified, for a King. But I wouldn’t mind sharing a drink.”
“Have ten.”
“It sounds like you already did.” One of them rose and opened the cabinet. No servants. This was a private meeting.
“I wasn’t just drinking,” Lord Torut drawled. “There was a shadow play about a Vengeful Ghost. Very dramatic. Lots
of death.”
I exhaled and silently prayed. Ancestors, please let them both pass out drunk. Please don’t let them find me.
But His Majesty didn’t seem like a reckless drinker. I tried not to breathe.
“And plenty of pretty female puppeteers, I’m sure,” King Alder muttered. I heard liquid and the scrape of cups. “Ah, plum wine. It’s a pity you drink this like water.”
“‘S made for drinking,” Blue Lord Torut said. “War still going poorly?”
King Alder sighed. “There shouldn’t be a war. They used that land dispute as an excuse to invade. The only good thing about the war is how amazing it makes wine taste.”
“Mmm.”
“Now they’re pushing up toward Napil and our obsidian mines. I’m carting obsidian to the capital as we speak, but if we lose our ability to make weapons... you’re not listening to a word of this, are you?”
“Nope.”
“If you weren’t such a happy drunk, I’d slap you.”
“Sometimes women slap me, when they don’t know who I am.”
His Majesty sighed. “If Mother weren’t dead, one look at you would kill her all over again.”
“Grandmother’s the one who should rest with the ancestors... then we could have our chef back. Oww!”
I couldn’t see what King Alder had done, but I imagined an ear-twisting.
“You may speak crudely of women in Askan-Wod, but never of our foremother. Understand?”
Lord Torut whimpered. “This family’s full of dying people. Don’t see what’s wrong about pointing it out. Her and Father. He’s not getting better, is he?”
“No.”
My heart clenched at the weight of that one word.
“You really need to keep him up in your Royal Bear place all the time?”
“If I could, I’d place him in a room safe in the clouds, where no illness or age could ever strike him down. Where I could always have him nearby.”
I bit my lip. These weren’t the words I’d expected from the man who’d callously executed twelve apprentice chefs. Whatever else he’d done, this man loved his father.
“You should bring him liquor. Liquor makes everyone happy.”
The king choked a bitter laugh. “And that’s why you’re no chef or physician. He’s frail. Becoming delusional. I worry for him.”
“Liquor cures everything,” Torut mumbled.
“Why did I bother coming back with you? I should have ordered some strong-of-back guard to carry you to your room. Here. Stand up. I’m not so pampered I can’t help you to your mattress.”
I jerked toward the window. I could push the latticed shutters open, jump to the ground below... and be caught as soon as everyone heard the thump. I couldn’t outrun anyone.
I ducked into the wardrobe instead, jamming myself behind fine mantles and shirts.
Someone thumped onto the mattress. “I’m not tired!”
“Just drunk,” King Alder muttered. More shuffling—it sounded like cloth. A blanket? “Hmm. Pine boughs. I thought those came in tomorrow.”
His footsteps receded.
Itches and aches volunteered themselves as I tried to hold still, balanced on my good foot. The wardrobe stank of mildew and stale alcohol—like it never quite washed out of Lord Torut’s clothes.
He belched—loudly—and shuffled to his feet. “Hoity-toity... won’t have a drink with me...”
I chewed my lip, waiting. Maybe he’d pass out soon. The lattice door opened, and he stumbled out into the front room. A drawer rattled, liquid splashed into a cup, and soon, raucous, off-key singing assailed my ears. The wardrobe muffled it, but not nearly enough.
The chorus gave a recipe for salmon roe—a food best known for targeting a problem my mother politely called a man with an unhappy wife.
Spicy, salty, sour, and sweet each got their own verse detailing the man’s exploits after feasting on salmon roe so seasoned. But the only verse that mentioned a wife made it clear she was married to someone else; Lord Torut giggled wildly during that one.
I leaned my head against the wood, smelling it, my own sweat, and the wine-stained clothes. My ankle throbbed, begging for pickled garlic-stuffed cherries. Dread settled in my gut, as cold as three-day-old leftovers
I couldn’t learn anything here. Either Lord Torut was an unequaled master of deception, or he was an unambitious lush, like Moss had said.
I exhaled, trying to calm myself. I couldn’t afford to worry about anything but escape right now. Lord Torut would eventually go to sleep. Or pass out. But what story would the door servant believe? Perhaps it would be best to grab a heavy vase and knock her out.
I silently laughed at myself. Moss might try such a thing, but I had no experience rendering someone unconscious. She’d raise an alarm and I’d be caught.
All fell quiet. I waited until my legs screamed their aches. I creaked the wardrobe door open and eased myself along the wall, listening.
Beautiful snoring met my ears.
I slunk across the dark room, trying not to make the floorboards creak. I fetched my skirt, tied it on, and felt my way to the exit.
Lord Torut snored on—the deep, throat-rumbling sound only liquor-lovers achieved. I’d tell the door servant Lord Torut detained me to pour his drinks. Surely that sounded reasonable.
I cracked the door and stepped outside into the crisp spring night, which thankfully smelled of yarrow and nothing like a musty wardrobe.
The door servant leaned against the wall, but she jerked awake as soon as I closed the door. She blinked at me, then smiled. “You hid, didn’t you?”
“I—” All my lies ran out of my brain, like water in a sieve. She shouldn’t sound hopeful that I’d deceived her master.
She frowned. “You didn’t manage to hide?”
My palms turned sweaty. The truth was easier. “I panicked. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be! Do you know how horrible Lord Torut is when he’s drunk? He thinks everyone is his mistress. I worried about you, but I figured if he was singing, the two of you weren’t... ahem.”
My stomach clenched. The poor girl. “Does he try... with his servants?”
“Try? Of course. But we all know to offer him more wine. He’ll always take that. Eventually, he passes out.” She shrugged. “There are worse things. I could have been assigned to scrub crocks.”
I’d rather scrub crocks until my bones broke than serve here. I gave her a nod and strode across the lawn, head high, like I belonged there.
Moss caught up with me on the gravel path and let me put my arm around him for support on the hobble home.
Despite Moss’ help and my splint, by morning my ankle looked like an over-packed sausage. After tasting Lady Sulat’s breakfast, she glanced at my injury and informed me that I’d spend the morning helping Poppy arrange the many flowers from her brave sons.
However it grated, Lady Sulat was right. I couldn’t make it down the porch steps. Poppy helped me sit down on the porch between a pair of those ubiquitous redwood pillars that supported the eaves.
At least last night wasn’t a complete failure. I’d learned Lord Torut wasn’t part of Fir’s plots, either. He was simply a revolting human being. If I gathered enough such tidbits, wouldn’t the whole picture fall into place?
Osem had been right to criticize my plan. I wanted to apologize for upsetting her, but that would have to wait until the day before my trial. No doubt I’d have to resort to more hasty, ill-conceived reconnaissance before then. I needed more time. And an uninjured ankle to go with it.
But where to look next?
Poppy kindly brought me a rock to prop my foot up on. “I heard about your fall, but I didn’t realize it was that bad.”
“Oh, she had a long night,” Moss chipped in. He sat on the bottom porch step, whittling some pine. The curls of wood drifted in the breeze toward me, their scent sharp and bright.
Poppy’s eyes widened in scandal. “You went to see Bane, didn’t you?”
Fr
ustration boiled in my chest. “No! Of course not!”
“That’s a lot of protest,” Poppy said as she added candyflowers and blue-eyed grass to her vase. “I suppose I wouldn’t want to die an unloved woman either, but you should still make it proper. Have a rushed wedding without your family and without a formal engagement ceremony like the Acting Master Chef is. I thought Bane too conscientious to treat you otherwise.”
“Bane is one of the best young men that I know! Nothing like that happened.”
“So you are fond of him?” A smile crept onto Poppy’s mouth.
My face burned. “I wasn’t with him!”
“There’s someone else?” Poppy asked, bright-eyed and eager for details.
Moss shook with silent laughter. I glared, but that made him laugh harder.
“Poppy.” I exhaled and steadied my voice. “Would you be so kind as to request some pickled garlic-stuffed cherries from the kitchen for me? I can finish your vase for you, while you’re gone.”
She looked from her magnificently displayed blooms to my half-empty vase. “Keep working on what you’re doing, all right?”
Arranging flowers. I should be following through on some plan to exonerate myself, but my mind felt like overcooked mush. The flowers stared at me. No answers here. I knew how to cook some of these, but not how to make them prettier.
“Y’know,” Moss said, “I’m glad you didn’t run away. I hate to admit it, but this may be better than knocking you down with bolas, no matter how much I like winning bets.”
“Oh, stuff it,” I grumbled, grabbing some wild roses.
He paused his whittling to put on a face of mock hurt. “Did I say anything untrue?”
I wanted to chuck the flowers in his face. My chest burned as badly as my foot—Moss was right. Nine days until the trial, and I was further from answers than when I started.
Poppy returned shortly. I ate the cherries, exhaling as its sour cooled and limbered my ankle. By the time we finished arranging and watering the flowers, I could put a bit of weight on it.
