[Queen of Orcs 02] - Clan Daughter

by Morgan Howell

“I hoped you had come back for me.”

  Sevren’s directness surprised Dar, and she took care how she replied. “Ever since the battle, I’ve been a leaf in the wind. Now, I’ve been blown here.”

  Sevren stared at the floor. “’Twas a fool’s hope.”

  “I never forgot your kindness to Twea and me,” said Dar. “That’s why I sent that message.”

  “Then I’ll content myself with your good opinion.”

  Dar smiled, more comfortable with Sevren’s eloquence than his sincerity. “And what of you since the battle?”

  Sevren’s face darkened and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “All’s gone ill. I feel tainted as a guardsman, for the king used his orcs to plunder Karm’s temple.”

  “I heard.”

  “The shrine lay in Feistav’s kingdom, but that’s na excuse—the goddess rules all the world. Men blame the orcs, but ’twas men that gave the orders and men who profited. But na me,” Sevren added quickly. “I stayed apart and took nothing holy. That dress I gave you has been my only pay.”

  “I guess most were less pious.”

  “Aye. And their sacrilege has caused na end of trouble. Folk are stirred up. Kregant’s using orcs against his own people.”

  “Why would he risk sacking a temple?”

  “Some say greed, and they’re part right. But I think it was mainly Blood Crow’s doing.”

  “The mage?”

  “Aye. After he consults his magic bones and says what must be done, Kregant heels like his dog.”

  With a sudden chill, Dar remembered Velasa-pah’s words. There is a man who listens to bones. He is your enemy, but the bones are a greater enemy.

  Sevren watched Dar’s reaction with concern. “You’ve gone white.”

  Before Dar could reply, Cron returned with Davot, who smiled upon seeing Dar. “I remember ye,” he said. “How fares yer wee friend?”

  “Dead,” said Dar.

  Davot looked upset. “Oh dear! I’m so sorry. So sorry.” He paused and collected his composure. “Murdant Cron says ye cook orc food.”

  “I was taught in their royal kitchen.”

  “Really? How strange. How fortunate. The orcish queen’s been off her food,” said Davot. “It’s a worry. Aye, for sure. The king’s mage is displeased.” Davot shuddered slightly. “Most displeased. Perhaps orc dishes would improve her appetite.”

  “So, you want her?” asked Cron.

  “I’ll give the lass a try.” Davot looked at Dar. “What’s yer name again?”

  “Dar.”

  “Well, Dar, ye can sleep in the kitchen with the scrubmaid.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Then I guess it’s settled,” said Cron. “How can His Majesty mind? Dar’s still serving orcs.”

  Davot led Dar to a chimney-covered building connected to the palace. When he opened its door, warm air, savory aromas, and wood smoke flowed from a cavernous room. The kitchen’s far wall was lined with fireplaces large enough for several people to stand inside. In one, a huge boar slowly turned on a spit cranked by two women. In addition to the fireplaces, there were brick ovens and metal stoves, but the floor space was taken up mostly by tables. There, men were busy preparing elaborate dishes while women did more menial tasks.

  “Here we cook for the entire palace,” said Davot. “Everything from porridge to peacocks.”

  “And muthtufa, kambek, and roast pashi?” asked Dar.

  “Never heard of those.”

  “They’re all orc dishes.”

  “I see,” said Davot, already distracted. The kitchen was his domain and all its activity his responsibility. Gazing about the room, Davot saw tasks he wanted done or done differently. He walked into the thick of things, giving orders while Dar trailed behind. Caught up in the demands of the moment, Davot seemed to forget why Dar was there. It was a while before he spoke to her again. “What do ye need to get started?”

  “A pot and ingredients,” said Dar. “But I only know their Orcish names. I think that…”

  “Weena!” bellowed Davot. A large, middle-aged woman hurried over. “Weena, this is Dar. She’s going to cook for the orc.”

  “A girl’s to cook?”

  “Only for the orc,” said Davot. “Get her what she needs.” Then he turned his attention elsewhere.

  Weena’s gaze fixed on Dar’s brand. “I’ve heard of girls like you. Maybe you’ve cooked for orcs and soldiers, but this is a proper kitchen.”

  “But one that can’t cook proper orcish food,” replied Dar. “That’s why Davot brought me here.”

  Weena scowled. “He said I’m to help you, and I will. But don’t put on airs. You’ll work like the other girls when you’re not cooking.” Then Weena took Dar through the storerooms. There Dar was able to find a number of items she could use. “Whiteroot” turned out to be pashi, “groundnut” was brak, and some of the kitchen’s spices were also used by orcs. Dar assembled the ingredients to make brak fried in seasoned oil. She cooked it in one of the fireplaces where she also roasted pashi.

  At dinnertime, a server took the food Dar had prepared, releasing her for other tasks. Wearing a blue smock over her shift, she helped carry food to the banquet hall. She used a servant passageway, part of a network of narrow corridors and stairs that allowed the help to move through the castle unseen. The passageway was dimly lit, so when Dar emerged into the banquet hall, it seemed ablaze with light. She placed a large silver tray of wine-poached fruit on the serving station, then gazed about in wonder.

  The great, ornate hall was filled with people and noisy with their talk. It seemed a place where a bit of gossip or a change in the seating could alter lives. Everyone appeared to be testing the wind while eating and drinking. In the charged atmosphere, Dar was of no consequence and, hence, invisible.

  The head table was on a platform at the hall’s end. All who sat there faced the rest of the room. King Kregant was enthroned at the table’s center, flanked by his queen and the black-robed mage. A boy, eight winters old at most, was seated next to the queen. A dozen men, all richly dressed, dined with them. The main floor of the hall contained three long tables that were perpendicular to the head one. They were filled with persons who dressed less richly and who dined on plainer fare. Blue-clad servers scurried about the room, pouring wine and bringing food. One of them noticed Dar gawking and hit her with his serving spoon. “Off with ye! There’s more food to be got!” Dar headed toward the door but stopped to stare again once the server turned away.

  Dar focused on the most dismal element in the splendid scene—the mage. This is my enemy, she thought. Even from across the room, the withered sorcerer looked menacing. His presence clearly dampened the spirits of those about him. The king looked subdued and his queen appeared frightened. Dar lingered until the mage looked up, as if disturbed by a sudden noise, and turned his gaze in her direction. Then Dar quickly retreated down the dark passageway.

  Thirty-two

  When Dar returned to the kitchen, Weena made her clean pots. While Dar scrubbed, the kitchen grew calmer and less crowded. The cooks disappeared after the final courses went up. Soon serving platters were brought down for washing. Leftovers were set aside for later use or given to the staff for dinner. Dar ate, then resumed washing. As cleanup proceeded, the help was gradually dismissed until only Dar and the scrubmaid remained. Bea, the scrubmaid, was a ragged woman who possessed the earnest cheerfulness of a half-wit. She grinned as she helped Dar upend the great pots so they could dry. “Weenee says ye’ll sleep with me.”

  Dar didn’t relish the idea, for Bea smelled. “You needn’t share your bed. I’ll find my own place to sleep.”

  “I don’t mind. Really! Toaty sleeps with me. He eats rats.”

  Dar hoped Toaty was a cat. She heard a pan fall over. “Is that Toaty?”

  “Toaty’s here,” said Bea, pointing to a gray tom rubbing against her leg.

  Dar peered about the kitchen. All but one lamp had been extinguished for the night. The only other l
ight came from embers in the fireplaces. Much of the room was wrapped in shadow, and one of the shadows was moving. At the sight of it, Bea retreated to a corner. Dar remained put. “Who’s there?” she called out.

  “Just me.”

  “Sevren? What are you doing here?”

  The shadow resolved into the figure of the guardsman. He held out a pair of shoes. “I want to give you these.”

  “Why?”

  “The palace floors get cold.”

  “And what do you want in return?”

  “I did na come to barter. These are a gift.”

  Dar hesitated, then took the shoes. They were new. “Thanks.”

  Sevren smiled. “Try them on, they will na bite.”

  Dar slipped on the shoes. They fit and their leather was soft.

  “You do na trust men,” said Sevren.

  “I find it hard after what I’ve been through.”

  “It’s a skill that can be learned if you have the right teacher. You trusted me enough to send that message.”

  “Yes.”

  “Where are you sleeping?” asked Sevren.

  “The scrubmaid has a mattress. We’ll share it.”

  “She need na bother. I spoke to Davot. You do na have to sleep here.”

  “Are you offering me your bed? No thanks.”

  “You can have it to yourself.”

  “No!”

  “Why na trust me one more time? You’ll be safe.”

  “I’m safe here.”

  “If you change your mind, the guards’ quarters are in the courtyard, right next door. My room’s on the second floor.”

  “I won’t.” Then Dar felt she sounded ungrateful. Sevren made her uneasy, but not in a frightening way. He’s never given me cause to doubt him. “You were kind to think of me.” Dar gave Sevren’s lips an impulsive peck. Then she quickly retreated, the kiss surprising her as much as it did Sevren.

  Queen Girta knocked on her husband’s door, knowing the king was drunk. He could become violent, but drink also loosened his tongue. Girta risked his wrath only because she was desperate. “Enter,” said the king. His eyes narrowed when he saw his wife. “Wha’ya want?”

  Girta assumed her most timid manner. “Milord, ’tis rumored that Othar had another child taken to the tower.”

  “So?”

  “Lady Rowena’s son is missing,” said Girta. She watched her husband’s face grow pale, and horror came over her. He knows what happened! Girta summoned her nerve and spoke again. “Do you think Othar…Could he have…”

  “How should I know?” snapped Kregant.

  “But, milord, he’s your mage.”

  “Mine?” The king laughed bitterly. “You’re queen. Ask him yourself.”

  “I can’t. He terrifies me.”

  Kregant refilled his wine goblet, then emptied it like a thirsty man. He gazed at his wife with eyes that had difficulty focusing. “Used to think he was my servant. Clever with herbs. Nothing more. Then…” His face contorted with despair. “Those cursed bones!”

  “They changed him,” said Girta in a quiet voice. “Not just his face. There’s a chill about him—a wind from the Dark Path.”

  “Think I haven’t noticed? I wear furs to dinner. The man’s ice cold, if he’s still a man.”

  “Get rid of him!”

  Kregant shivered. “Can’t.”

  “Because he poisoned your father for you?” That was only a guess on Girta’s part, and she wanted to hear how her husband would reply.

  Kregant was too drunk to perceive the snare. “Too late for blackmail. I’m king now.”

  “Then why can’t you be rid of him?”

  “Too dangerous. He could join my enemies.”

  “Not if he’s dead.”

  King Kregant refilled his goblet. “Bones would warn him. B’sides, I need him. There’s danger. My foe’s returned.”

  “What foe?”

  Kregant gazed at his wife stupidly. “Foe? Not sure yet. Othar’s searching. But he needs blood. So much blood.” The king’s head slumped on his chest as he passed out.

  Girta regarded her unconscious husband with disgust. She had never loved him, but royal marriages had nothing to do with love. The match had benefited Girta’s father and given her a crown. When she married, Girta had believed a crown was more than a weight upon the head. She had since learned differently. Girta’s son was the sole unblemished part of her life. She loved him fiercely, and any foe of the king also threatened the prince. Thus, while Girta was certain that a man she loathed and feared had killed her best friend’s son, she hoped the boy’s death had not been in vain. If the mage’s sorcery had exposed an enemy, the prince would be safer. That hope shed some light on the king’s dilemma; even demons have their uses.

  Thirty-three

  Dar was asleep at the edge of Bea’s mattress when Davot shook her awake. He was grinning. “Every bite!” he said. “She ate every bite of what ye cooked!”

  Dar blinked sleepily. It wasn’t yet dawn. “That’s good.”

  “Didn’t touch the venison pie, the poached fruit, nothing from the king’s banquet. But she liked yer food. Praised it. I should be jealous.”

  “It was nothing special.”

  “Maybe so, but it’s official now—ye’ll cook for the orc and serve her, too.”

  “Serve the queen? I’d have to bathe first.”

  “Aye, I know all about that. We have a room for washing. Fresh robes, too. She’s been here awhile, ye know.”

  Dar saw an opportunity and seized it. “I’ll like to have more orcish spices. It’d help me cook.”

  Davot looked dubious. “And how would I get those?”

  “There’s an orc in camp who would fetch them if I spoke to him.”

  “Orcs can’t come to the city without the king’s leave.”

  “We could meet outside the gate. I’d need an escort, though.”

  Davot smiled knowingly. “Sevren, perhaps?”

  “He’d do.”

  “I’ll arrange it. Meanwhile, think of what ye’ll make for dinner.”

  Davot hurried off. Dar rose, put on her new shoes, and breakfasted on leftover bread. While she ate, she pondered where events were taking her. She had the unsettling feeling that her arrival in Taiben had been fore-ordained. Why else would Velasa-pah warn me about the mage? Dar was still uncertain why he warned her about the bones. I’ve heard stories of magic tokens. How can such things be an enemy? Dar knew nothing of deep magic. The idea that it might be used against her was terrifying.

  Sevren arrived while Dar was making muthtufa. By then it was midmorning. “Davot said you had an errand.”

  “Can you go to the orc garrison?”

  “A guardsman can go anywhere on the king’s business.”

  “This is the king’s business. I need you to get a message to an orc.”

  Sevren looked uneasy. “What should I say?”

  “The orc’s name is Zna-yat, and he’s in barracks seventeen. He doesn’t speak our tongue, so you’ll have to memorize what to say.”

  Sevren looked even more uneasy. “I don’t fancy saying things I do na understand. What if I insult him?”

  “Zna-yat is expecting my message. He’ll do nothing to displease me.”

  Sevren grinned. “And snapping my neck would displease you?”

  Dar ignored the jest. “Say ‘Dargu-yat vak pah ala Zna-yat.’ That means ‘Dar has a message for Zna-yat.”

  Sevren repeated the phrase until Dar was satisfied. Then she said, “When an orc speaks to you, ask him if he’s Zna-yat. Say ‘Na tha Zna-yat?’ ‘Hai’ means ‘yes.’ ‘Thwa’ means ‘no.’”

  “What if he says no?’”

  “Then repeat my first message until Zna-yat shows up. Then say ‘Sutat. Tha pahat ta Dargu-yat.’ That means ‘Come. You speak with Dargu-yat.’ It would be a good idea to bow before you say it. Take him to wherever you think we should meet, then say, ‘Geemat.’ That means ‘wait.’ Then get me.”

&nb
sp; “I take it bowing again wouldn’t hurt.”

  “Politeness never does.”

  Sevren gave a mock bow and asked Dar to repeat all the phrases he must learn. After he memorized everything, he departed and didn’t return until the afternoon. By then, the muthtufa was simmering. Dar left it in the care of a kitchen maid, and Sevren led her to the meeting place. It was beyond the gate but still in view of the guards. The approach to the city had been cleared of any cover for an enemy, leaving only a tiny guardhouse between the city and the camp. Thus, Dar felt conspicuous as she met Zna-yat. He bowed, then grinned. “Dargu, already you have taught courtesy to washavokis,” he said in Orcish.

  Dar answered in the same tongue. “Only this one.”

  “What do you wish of me?”

  “I’ll need spices from clan hall. More importantly, tell matriarch that I’ll see our queen tonight and every night thereafter. When you return, I may have more messages.” Dar handed Zna-yat a metal token that Sevren had given her. “Washavoki king gives these to urkzimmuthi who carry his messages. When you return, you’ll need it to contact me.”

  Zna-yat bowed low. “Great is your wisdom, Mother. Tell me what spices you desire and what I must do when I return with them.”

  After Dar had concluded her business, Sevren escorted her back to the kitchen. “I’ve seen hardened soldiers tremble before orcs,” he said. “I’ll confess, I was a tad shaky myself. But you…I could hear the respect when that orc spoke, though I did na understand a word.”

  “He honors me because I bit his neck.”

  “You what?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  Sevren regarded Dar with awe. “I think it’s you I should be bowing to, na the orc.”

  Dar felt nervous and excited as dinner approached. She didn’t know what to expect, but she was certain the night would be eventful. Davot brought the woman who would show the way to the queen’s chamber. He also inspected the muthtufa Dar had prepared. Davot didn’t taste the stew, but poured the contents of a vial into it and stirred thoroughly. “That’s healing magic,” he said, “so don’t ye taste that dish again.”