by Hilari Bell
“I’m pleased to meet you.” Jeriah meant it—it was nice to see that not everyone here shared Master Goserian’s taste for pomp. Although those slippers…
“Excuse me, but may I ask why…?” Jeriah gestured to the man’s feet. Was the secretary absentminded enough to have forgotten his shoes?
Master Zachiros shrugged. “Sore feet. The curse of old age, lad. Luckily, one of the graces of old age is sufficient rank to wear shoes that accommodate them!”
Jeriah slowed even more, but in just a few more steps they had arrived at the temple, which stood at the very top of the palace open to the Bright Gods’ sky.
A crowd of courtiers stood in front of the dais, shifting their feet and gossiping, but silence fell when the Sunlord emerged from a staircase at the west rim of the circle and walked slowly toward the great altar at the center. The chorus waited quietly, perched on steps that rose to the northern rim of the temple, cupping the altar like outspread wings. The Hierarch turned to the east just as the sun slipped over the edge of the horizon, bathing him with living light. He lifted his arms. “Praise and welcome.”
The full Dawn Prayer was seldom used in the countryside, but the responses were simple enough that Jeriah was able to murmur through them without fumbling. The formal words had never brought him comfort before, but watching morning light wash over the land, he welcomed that half hour’s peace. He was afraid he might need an extra bit of calmness before the day was over.
In fact, working as Master Goserian’s assistant wasn’t as frustrating as Jeriah had feared—under that stuffy manner, a sharp mind lurked. By the time Jeriah climbed the stairs for Sunset Prayer, he understood why the Master of Household needed it. In just one day he’d delivered messages to the palace farms, orders to the laundry, a reprimand to a spice merchant, queries, bills, complaints…
A few days later Master Goserian asked Jeriah to investigate a problem and report back on the cause. Was the meat in a certain storage locker rotting because of improper storage, or had the butcher sent stuff that was already going bad? It wasn’t complex, but Jeriah’s answer could cost the butcher his best client, or a cook’s assistant his job. He wasn’t offended when Master Goserian checked to be certain Jeriah’s report was accurate before making his final judgment—and then canceled his order with the butcher.
All of this gave Jeriah a clearer view of the complexities of palace life than he’d ever had before, and also a clearer view of the immense difficulty of finding anything as small as a bunch of spell notes!
By now Jeriah’s work had taken him to every public part of the palace, from the third level, which held not only Master Lazur’s office but also the council chambers and the offices of the landholders who served there, to the subcellar two flights of stairs below the kitchen and laundry, where a great furnace roared day and night.
If Jeriah had been trying to hide those notes, he’d have chosen one of the dozens of overcrowded, paper-stuffed offices. The administration of the entire Realm moved through them, and finding one pile of papers among all those thousands would have been impossible. But there would be dangers in that as well; those piles of paper were being processed by hundreds of attentive clerks. If something came to light that shouldn’t be there, Master Zachiros would certainly hear about it…and maybe Master Goserian, too. Even if you found it, you couldn’t… Recognize it? Use it?
Whatever the answer was, it wasn’t likely to be a problem—because as far as Jeriah could tell, finding the notes was going to require the direct intervention of at least three saints!
He needed to figure out where Master Lazur might have put those notes, without tipping off the priest or Nevin. And he knew just who to ask—the likeliest person to know where papers were stored was always the lowly clerk.
Jeriah hovered in a corner of the great hall, watching the crowd stream in for midmeal. Tracking the girl down in the library would be too obvious, and he’d have to interrupt her work—not the right way to start a casual conversation. It would be tricky to charm Mistress Koryn. He needed to catch her off guard, in a sociable mood.
If he hadn’t been watching, he’d never have seen her come in—nothing she wore stood out among the drably garbed priests. The Sunlord seldom dined with his court, but when he did, the ambitious courtiers and priests scrambled to sit near him. The smarter of the ambitious realized that most people claimed an accustomed seat for meals, so tables near the dais were crowded.
The table in the corner where Mistress Koryn sat down was one of the farthest from the dais that held the Hierarch’s throne. It was occupied by upper servants and low-ranked clerks. As he drew closer, Jeriah saw that she’d brought a book into the dining hall.
Jeriah seated himself beside her and waited for her to notice. And waited.
The book she was reading appeared to be handwritten—someone’s journal, perhaps?
Koryn turned a page and went right on reading. Jeriah gave up on being noticed.
“What are you working on so diligently, Mistress Goserian? It looks a bit dry from here. Downright dusty.”
She jumped slightly when he spoke. Widened with surprise, her pale eyes dominated her face like a full moon dominates the night.
“What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to thank you for helping me find your uncle the other day. I’m working for him now.”
Once more, his easy smile had no visible effect.
“Is that something you’re doing for Master Lazur?” Jeriah pressed on. “Clerking seems an odd job for a, ah, a lovely young—”
“For a girl,” she said dryly. “You don’t know anything about me, do you?”
The standard response, that he’d like to know more about her, rose to Jeriah’s lips. He had better sense than to say it.
“I understand that women have brains,” he said instead. “My mother is one of the smartest people I know. But you have to admit, it’s an unusual job. Especially for someone who’s not an apprentice priest.”
Her eyes were still wary, but her expression softened a bit. “What do you want, Rovanscourt?”
“It’s Rovan,” Jeriah told her. “As long as my brother is alive. I’d appreciate it if you’d call me Jeriah.”
“All right. What do you want, Jeriah?”
He wasn’t accustomed to girls who were that direct. “I just wanted to get to know you better.”
“Of course you do.” She finally smiled, but it was thin with irony. Her gaze strayed back to the book—which she hadn’t bothered to close.
“Why shouldn’t I want to get to know you?” Jeriah demanded, nettled. “You’re pretty, in a weird sort of way. And you’re my boss’s niece. I’d…”
Neither of those things, he realized, was exactly flattering.
“I just thought you might be interesting to talk to, that’s all.”
And she was interesting, curse it, so the sincerity in his voice should have helped. But her smile grew colder.
“Master Lazur is one of the most powerful men in the Realm.”
Jeriah blinked at the change of topic. “I know that. Your uncle is powerful, too, in a different way. So what?”
“So do you really think, Master Rovan, that you’re the first person to sit down and oh-so-casually try to get to know me?”
Ouch.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Jeriah admitted. And he’d been clumsy about it, too. “Well then…Well. I’ll leave you to your book, Mistress Goserian.”
He rose and fled to his accustomed seat, among his own friends. Thank goodness the servers hadn’t brought out the meal, or his departure would have been even more awkward. He was sufficiently embarrassed as it was!
It was his own fault, anyway. He’d realized at their first meeting that this girl had a brain. He would have to go back to searching the palace the hard way. Charming Mistress Koryn would clearly be even harder.
Jeriah had worked at that search for four more days when, taking a few moments to try to figure out which third-le
vel office belonged to whom, he walked briskly around a corner and almost ran into the Hierarch.
“Sunlord,” Jeriah gasped, dropping to one knee. At least he hadn’t run the man down.
“Stand up,” said the Hierarch gently. “I want a cup of tea. I came to look for it.”
Didn’t the Hierarch’s servants attend to that? Evidently not this time. Up close, the Hierarch’s face showed lines that Jeriah hadn’t seen when he’d attended the Sun Prayers, and silver threaded through the pale hair.
“May I fetch it for you, my lord?” Jeriah asked.
“Yes, please!” The Hierarch’s smile was so delighted that Jeriah couldn’t help smiling back.
He rose and hurried down to the kitchen. The cook’s assistant, whose job Jeriah’s report on the butcher had saved, knew which tea the Hierarch preferred. He swiftly brewed a pot and put it on the proper tray with several gold-rimmed cups in case the Hierarch had company. Jeriah hurried up two flights of interior stairs, setting the tray down on the last step to straighten his tunic and smooth his hair. Master Goserian hadn’t yet sent him to the second level, and the simplicity of the unadorned marble flooring and walls surprised him. But the stone was beautiful, and the Hierarch hadn’t appeared to be a man who stood on ceremony. Perhaps he preferred these open, simpler surroundings.
A pair of guards stood beside the door to the Hierarch’s suite, but they only watched as Jeriah took a deep breath and knocked.
Nevin opened the door. “What are you doing here?”
Jeriah held out the tray. “The Hierarch asked me to bring him some tea.”
“You met him!” Nevin pulled Jeriah into the room so abruptly he almost dropped the tray.
“Hey!” Jeriah protested.
“Where did you meet him?” Nevin demanded. “When was this?”
“Just a few minutes ago,” said Jeriah. “On the third level. Isn’t he here now? He didn’t say where I was to bring it, so I assumed…”
“Oh, he’s back now,” said Nevin. “No thanks to you. I want this tea tested.”
Jeriah blinked. “Tested?”
“Rano!” Nevin strode toward a door on the other side of the antechamber and summoned the man Jeriah knew to be the Hierarch’s Master of Wardrobe. “Go fetch the herb mistress. I want this tea checked.”
“It came from the palace kitchen,” Jeriah protested. “I’m sure it’s fine.”
He knew some people were fussy about how their tea was brewed, but—
“It’s not that,” said Nevin. “It’s…the Hierarch has some stomach problems. We have to be careful with what he’s served.”
“It was prepared by the assistant chef,” Jeriah told him. If the Hierarch had stomach problems, surely the kitchen staff knew how to deal with it.
Nevin ignored him.
Jeriah was fuming silently by the time the herb mistress arrived.
She was a priest of the fourth circle whom Jeriah hadn’t yet encountered on his errands. Plump and comfortably middle-aged, with quiet brown eyes and graying hair. Although she didn’t resemble Jeriah’s grandmother, who was spare and sharp-tongued, somehow she looked like everybody’s grandmother. She heard Nevin out with a serene expression.
“…wandering around like that. Anything could have happened!” Nevin ranted.
“But nothing did,” she said. “So you’d best ease up before you set folks to wondering.”
Her soft country accent surprised Jeriah. And what should he be wondering about?
Nevin scowled. “I still want you to test the tea. Everything he eats is supposed to be checked. His doctors ordered it when…a long time ago.”
The herb mistress snorted, but she went over to the cooling pot and poured tea into one of the cups. She sniffed it, then took a sip.
“It’s fine.”
Nevin looked as if he expected her to drop dead on the spot.
“Any idiot could have told you that.” Jeriah was beginning to enjoy himself.
Nevin’s scowl turned into a snarl, but the woman squeezed his arm in warning.
“I know you were worried, but you don’t want to make more of the situation than it is. I’ll see this lad back downstairs while you take the Hierarch his tea, shall I?”
Without waiting for an answer, she whisked Jeriah out of the room and down the corridor. They were descending the third-level servants’ staircase before he’d gathered his wits enough to ask, “What was that about?”
“Young Nevin making a fool of himself? If you’ve met him, that shouldn’t surprise you. I’m Mistress Chardane, by the by.”
“No, I meant…” Jeriah wasn’t sure what he meant. “Has the Hierarch been ill? I hadn’t heard that he had stomach problems.”
Severe ones, judging by Nevin’s reaction. But if that was true, why conceal it?
“Stomach problems?” They’d reached the fourth level, and Mistress Chardane was already turning away. “Even being personally chosen by the Bright Gods doesn’t grant a body perfect health, I suppose.”
“No, but why—”
“Lad.” The herb mistress turned back to him, her comfortable face inscrutable. “What happens on the second level is no business of yours or mine. If you want an old woman’s advice—which no youngling ever does—leave it be.”
Mistress Chardane departed. Was the Hierarch supposed to be so holy he was always in perfect health? Or was there some other reason to conceal the fact that he’d been ill? Chardane was probably right that it was none of Jeriah’s business, but he still wondered.
Two days after that Jeriah was checking out a discrepancy in the coal supply for the furnace—though furnace seemed too small a word for the thundering combination of water heater and pumps that not only supplied the laundry and bathing rooms, but also vented through all the floors and ceilings to heat the whole palace.
By midmorning Jeriah had determined that all the coal the merchant’s invoice claimed had been delivered was indeed stored in the subcellar bins, so the error lay in the palace inventory. Jeriah was making a note that the merchant’s payment should be expedited when Master Goserian came up to him, puffing from the long flights of stairs.
“Your presence has been requested in the Sunlord’s chambers,” he told Jeriah. “I wasn’t aware you’d ever served there?”
“I took the Hierarch a cup of tea,” Jeriah told him. “Which he requested! I don’t know why Brallorscourt made such a fuss over it.”
Master Goserian pursed his lips. “That would be Sir Nevin Brallor of Brallorscourt, not Lord Brallorscourt?”
Jeriah nodded.
“Then it probably isn’t a problem.” Relief brightened the Master of Household’s face. “I must admit, Lord Brallorscourt is a man I’d hesitate to challenge.”
“I’ve never even met Lord Brallorscourt,” said Jeriah. “And if he’s anything like his son, I don’t want to.”
Master Goserian cast him a disapproving look but said nothing. After working for the man almost a week, Jeriah knew that meant that he agreed but didn’t want to say so.
Jeriah’s new-made resolve never to come to Lord Brallorscourt’s attention was foiled the moment Master Goserian led him into the Hierarch’s antechamber.
“So he’s the one.” The man who looked Jeriah over so critically had Nevin’s straight, pale hair, and also his bony nose and chin. “He looks suitable to me.”
Nevin scowled, but Master Zachiros, who was also present, nodded.
Master Lazur, the final person in the room, wore a particularly unreadable expression. “I never said he wasn’t suitable. My reservations are because of the…delicacy of the situation.”
Jeriah wished he knew what delicate situation they were talking about.
“He seems quite competent,” said Master Zachiros. “And the Hierarch likes him, which matters. In fact, given how many have already failed, I think that consideration is paramount.”
Who’d failed at what?
“It won’t be paramount if he’s out wandering the corr
idors unattended.” Nevin cast Jeriah a scathing look.
“That wasn’t young Rovan’s fault,” Master Zachiros pointed out. “And it wasn’t yours either. You can’t be in two places at once. Which is precisely the problem we need to solve.”
Jeriah wished they weren’t all staring at him. “What problem?”
“That’s not the only consideration,” said Master Lazur. “As the rest of you are well aware, because this is the third time I’ve said so!”
“But you’ve assured me the situation is under control,” Lord Brallorscourt said coldly.
“It is!” Master Lazur flung up his hands. “Oh, very well. If you all think this is the solution, we’ll try it.”
“What situation?” Jeriah’s voice was louder this time.
“Oh dear,” said Master Zachiros. “I’m sorry, we shouldn’t be ignoring you. But if Master Goserian gives you a good report…?”
“I do,” said Master Goserian. “Provisionally, because I don’t know what matter is under discussion.”
“We’re talking about assigning Master Rovan here to a new post,” said Master Zachiros. “As the Hierarch’s body squire.”
“What?” Jeriah’s head spun. “But…isn’t that Nevin’s job?” No wonder Nevin looked so furious.
“It used to be,” said Nevin’s father. “But I want him in a post with more political exposure. And when I say ‘in a post,’ I mean actually doing it, not neglecting it to serve—”
“This is a high honor for you, Jeriah,” Master Zachiros put in hastily. “The Sunlord himself requested your service. What do you say?”
What could he say? “It is an honor. Far higher than I deserve.”
Being the Hierarch’s squire would make it harder to look for the spell notes—had Master Lazur arranged it for that very reason? Tobin would probably start to sicken in just over two weeks. But it sounded like the priest had been arguing against giving Jeriah the job.
