by Angus Wells
This knowledge Arcole filed away for future reference: that Davyd might be hexed could affect his inchoate plans. He mulled the notion, falling silent as they continued through the streets.
Was Nathanial aware of his sudden quiet, the man gave no sign, but kept on talking, speaking of life in Grostheim and the benefits of indenture to Wyme’s service as if he would deliver all the information at his disposal in the single lengthy address. There were, he explained, those amongst the governor’s servants of higher rank than others, to whom the lesser servants must submit—to wit, the majordomo Benjamyn, the housekeeper Chryselle, the cook Dido, and the head groom Fredrik. He named assorted others, but Arcole paid scant attention: Nathanial’s litany forced home the knowledge that he was become such a creature as he had always taken for granted—a servant, faceless. He rubbed at the scar decorating his cheek, anger welling anew so that he must struggle to maintain a bland expression, bite back the retort that he was no man’s menial. Here he was exactly that, and did he claim difference he must suffer for his presumption. It sat ill, and in silence he swore that he would accept the indignity no longer than he must.
Then Nathanial halted before a chest-high fence trailed with roses; past the barrier lay lawns and flowerbeds, and a wide drive leading to a portico extending from the frontage of a sizable house. It was constructed in the style of an Evanderan country mansion, but all of wood, so that it looked to Arcole like a grandiose hunting lodge, a folly such as a rich man might order built in the forests.
Nathanial said, “The governor’s mansion.” And when Arcole moved toward the open gates, “No, no,” hastily. “We’re not allowed the front entrance. There’s a servants’ gate out back.”
It seemed to Arcole strange to enter a house from the rear, but he steeled himself and followed Nathanial around the fence to a humbler gate that opened into a yard. Wash was hung there to dry, and three women, their rolled sleeves exposing the brands on their arms, labored over steaming tubs. They looked up as Nathanial led Arcole and Flysse across the yard, but did not speak or halt their work.
Nathanial brought the newcomers to a servants’ hall, where more indentured folk busied themselves with the sundry tasks that fall to menials. Arcole had never before set foot in this part of a house; never before paused to wonder at a servant’s lot. He gazed about, noticing that the men all wore outfits similar to his guide’s, and that the women were dressed in uniform dirndls, the skirts white beneath green bodices.
At the farther end of the hall a white-haired man rose to his feet, an expression of inquiry on his lined face. He wore waistcoat and breeches like the others, but his shirt was of finer material, fastened at the neck with a silk foulard, and his shoes were buckled with polished silver.
“Benjamyn,” Nathanial said, head bobbing, “these are the two the master’s chosen. Flysse and Arcole, they’re called.”
Benjamyn nodded and waved Nathanial away. He looked to Arcole to be in his latter years, but his eyes were bright as they studied the newcomers, and he held himself rigidly erect. The brand on his cheek was so ancient it was barely visible. He took his time examining them, all the while making a little clucking sound, as if he ticked of mental points.
Finally he spoke: “I am Benjamyn, majordomo of this household. Nathanial has explained arrangements here?”
Arcole nodded. “Yes, he has.” Then he frowned as he saw Flysse drop a curtsy. Old habits, he supposed, died hard; likely hard as the acquiring of new.
“Then you understand that after the master and his lady,” Benjamyn continued, “you answer to me. Be always obedient, perform your duties, and you shall find this a comfortable home. What are your skills?”
Arcole hesitated. He had anticipated conversation with Wyme, the chance to outline his various abilities in a manner that would convince the governor he be placed in some suitable position—he was unsure how to answer this servant. He was not accustomed to speaking with servants beyond the issuing of requests that were, in reality, orders. He was grateful Flysse spoke up.
“I was a serving girl in a tavern,” she said. “Before that I worked as a lady’s maid, and on my parents’ farm.”
Benjamyn nodded, tongue clicking vigorously. “Then perhaps you’ve the makings of a maid,” he said. “But I think we’ll start you in the kitchens, does Dido agree.”
Bright black eyes turned to Arcole, brows raised questioningly. “And you, Arcole?”
“I …” Arcole shrugged helplessly: of a sudden his catalogue of accomplishments seemed of poor advantage. “I am accounted a fair cardsman; I play the harpsichord and the spinet; I can sketch and paint; I box quite well; and I can use a sword or pistol.”
Arcole heard someone chuckle. Amongst the wrinkles furrowing Benjamyn’s forehead, two or three grew deeper. It was impossible to tell whether he smiled or frowned. “All very well,” he said, “were you a gentleman. But what useful talents have you?”
Almost, Arcole said that he was a gentleman, but he bit back the claim—it was meaningless now, and he thought it could serve only to damage him in this strange new situation. Instead, he said, “I can ride. In the Levan I was considered a good horseman.”
Benjamyn’s tongue clicked louder. “Then I think,” he said slowly, “that you shall begin your service in the stables. Nathanial, do you take him to Fredrik. Flysse, follow me.”
He turned away. Flysse looked to Arcole with something akin to sorrow in her eyes. Arcole stood dumbstruck. A stableman? He was to be a stableman? He moved after Benjamyn, a protest forming—and was halted by Nathanial’s hand on his arm.
“Don’t argue,” whispered the brown-haired man. “Else old Benjamyn’ll make your life truly miserable.”
Arcole could think of few things more miserable than working in the stables, but heeded the warning. Surely in time he must be elevated to some more suitable position, and it would not do to rebel so early. He told himself that access to riding animals might well prove useful and, smarting beneath an expression of assumed docility, he allowed Nathanial to lead him from the hall.
They crossed the yard to another, redolent of the animals penned in the stables that stood against one wall. Two men in leather waistcoats sat on a bench polishing tackle; at Nathanial’s shout, a third emerged from the stables.
“Fredrik, this is Arcole. Benjamyn sends him.”
Fredrik eyed Arcole much as had the majordomo. He was some years younger, his face dark as old leather, a small, bowlegged man, his graying hair drawn back in a tail fastened with a blue bow.
“So.” The bowing of his legs gave him a waddling gait. “You know horses, eh?” His accent belonged to the Levan.
Arcole nodded and said, “I’ve some skill.”
Fredrik cocked his head. “You’re Levanite?”
“I am,” said Arcole, thinking to have found a friend.
The head groom dashed his hopes. “Don’t look for favors on that account, eh? The Levan counts for naught here. We’re all exiles, eh?” He tapped his scarred cheek in emphasis. “Show me your hands.”
Arcole offered his palms for examination. Fredrik studied them and chuckled. “Ever groomed a horse?”
Arcole answered with a nod.
“Ever cleaned your own tack?”
Arcole shook his head.
Fredrik said, “You’ll learn,” and turned to the watching grooms. “Wyllem, do you see him kitted out, then put him to work.”
Wyllem uncoiled a lanky frame from the bench and beckoned Arcole. “So what were you,” he asked, “before you got sent here?”
Arcole said, “A gentleman.”
“Well, you’re no gentleman here, my friend,” Wyllem chuckled. “What’d you do to earn your brand?”
“I killed a man in a duel,” Arcole replied.
Wyllem appeared unimpressed. “I stole a pig,” he said, and chuckled. “Then I killed it and ate it.”
He seemed not much put out that his theft had delivered him to Salvation. Arcole wondered if all exiles a
ccepted their fate so readily. He felt stunned, events moved with a numbing swiftness after the slow days aboard the schooner, and he followed Wyllem in silence as the groom brought him to an outhouse.
“We sleep in here.” He pushed the door open, revealing a bare, dirt-floored shed containing four bunks, stabbing a finger at a section at the farther end that was walled off. “Those are Fredrik’s quarters. Now, I reckon Bertran’s gear’ll fit you.”
From a chest beside one bunk he produced breeches and a waistcoat the like of his own. Arcole asked, “What happened to Bertran?”
“He died,” said Wyllem, grinning at Arcole’s expression. “Of old age, be you afeared of fever.”
Arcole hoped the clothing had been washed. At least he was allowed to keep his own shirt and boots; at least he need not wear the demeaning uniform of the house servants.
“Right,” Wyllem declared when he was done, “now let’s get to work.”
They returned to the bench, where Wyllem introduced his fellow stableman, a taciturn Evanderan named Gylbert, whose only greeting was a grunt, after which he said nothing more.
As he scrubbed leather and polished harness, Arcole learnt that Wyme owned a stable of four horses and an equipage that was seldom used save when occasion demanded the ceremony of a carriage, or the governor made a trip inland.
“Then,” Wyllem explained, “Fredrik handles the reins and we all get dressed up to play coachmen.”
“He’s no riding animals?” Arcole inquired.
“What for?” Wyllem shook his head, frowning, then chuckled. “Of course, you wouldn’t know—the master’s crippled, can’t barely use his legs. He hobbles about on crutches in the house, and he’s a chair and four big fellows to carry it when he goes about the town. Mistress, she’s got another. Only sedan chairs in Grostheim, they are, shipped in from Evander.”
He seemed proud of that monopoly, which seemed to Arcole very strange. It was as though the stableman felt himself somehow elevated by his master’s prominence, and Arcole wondered if all servants felt the same reflected glory. The enormity of his situation sank in, perhaps for the first time: untold leagues separated him from his home, and he entered a world new in more than only geographic terms. He came close then to cursing Dom for that act supposed kind that had saved him from execution only to bring him here. But here he was, and now must make the best of it, even be he a stranger in a strange new world. He had, he recognized, much to learn—that what lessons he had accrued from contact with Flysse and Davyd were only a beginning.
“And does he hex you … us … when he travels abroad?” he asked.
“Nathanial told you about the master’s gift, eh?” Wyllem smiled. “No, not us. Likely because he never goes past the walls without a squadron of Major Spelt’s Militiamen along. No point to using his hex power when a musket ball can stop you from running, eh? Anyway, there’s nowhere to go. Didn’t Nathanial tell you that?”
“Yes,” Arcole replied, “he did. He said there’s only empty wilderness out there.”
“Well then,” said Wyllem, “there you are.”
“Yes.” Arcole sighed. “Here I am.”
“You sleep here.” Gahame indicated a corner of the warehouse, screened by crates, a mattress, and blankets on the floor. “There’s a pump in the yard for washing, and you’ll eat with the others. Those are your only clothes?”
“Yes, ’sieur Gahame.” Davyd nodded, surveying his quarters. He hoped there were no rats; at least there was a window looking onto the yard outside.
“Well, we’ll have to see what we can find you,” Gahame said. “I’ll not have my indentured folk in stinking rags.”
Davyd did not think his clothes stank, nor were they unduly ragged, but he said dutifully, “No, ’sieur Gahame.”
“As to your duties.” Gahame paused. “Why were you exiled?”
Davyd hesitated. “I was caught trying to steal, ’sieur Gahame …”
The thin man nodded thoughtfully. “Best not try such tricks with me, eh?” His tone was mild, but Davyd heard the threat beneath and shook his head vigorously.
“Oh, no, ’sieur Gahame, I’d not do that. It was only that I was starving.”
“Could you not find honest work?”
Gahame eyed him speculatively and Davyd shook his head, dissembling. “Work’s hard to find in Bantar, ’sieur. Leastways when you’re like me, and an orphan.” He assumed what he hoped was a suitably crestfallen expression and added an element of truth, “I might’ve begged, but I didn’t like to do that.”
“A point in your favor,” Gahame said. “But tell me: were you orphaned, why were you not placed in a workhouse?”
“I don’t know, ’sieur,” Davyd said, which was more or less the truth. “But I wasn’t, and I had no money, and, well …” He shrugged expressively.
“To steal is to sin,” Gahame declared. “Are you a believer, Davyd?”
Davyd nodded enthusiastically, omitting to say just what he believed in.
“Then,” said Gahame, “you will be pleased to know that I allow my servants to attend church. In fact, I insist on it.”
“Oh,” said Davyd, “good. I shall enjoy that, ’sieur Gahame.”
Which was an absolute lie, for the idea filled him with renewed terror that he found difficult to conceal. In Bantar he had avoided churches as he avoided the Inquisitors and the Militia, for fear the priests owned the ability to sniff out his dreaming. Perhaps it was different here, but still the notion filled him with dread. It was a dilemma—he’d gain this man’s goodwill, and could hardly refuse if Gahame insisted he attend services; did he protest, then it might be Gahame would suspect him and he be found out anyway. He wished Arcole were present to counsel him, but Arcole was gone and he must rely on his own wits.
“What’s amiss?” he heard Gahame ask. “You’re gone all pale, lad.”
Davyd forced his mouth to parody a weak smile and mumbled, “You’re too kind, ’sieur. I’d not expected such kindness.”
“I do no more than any God-fearing man,” Gahame said, though he appeared pleased with Davyd’s response. “Now, tell me, have you any especial skills that might be useful in my enterprise?”
Not save you need locks picked, Davyd thought, or purses cut, but he shook his head and said, “I don’t think so, ’sieur. What is the nature of your enterprise?”
“Of course, you’d not know.” Gahame smiled, a benefactor proud of his success. “I’ve the governor’s licence to supply the folk of Salvation with arms, also general hardware. Anyone in all this land requiring a musket, ball, or powder, also tools—ax heads, plowshares, and the like—must come to me. Or I go to them.”
“You travel beyond Grostheim’s walls?” That seemed to Davyd a somewhat unpleasant notion: he was familiar with cities, not the countryside, which struck him as a vaguely dangerous place. He had sooner remain safe behind the walls of this small city, even must he risk priestly discovery. It was an afterthought to add, “Master.”
The trader seemed not to notice the lapse, though he was aware of Davyd’s discomfort and chuckled encouragingly. “There’s no danger in Salvation,” he said confidently. “Save the odd wild beast come awandering out of the forest, and those we can easily shoot. No, lad, have no fear on that account—my weapons are used for hunting only. Besides, I’d not take you along yet. Until you’re better seasoned, I’ll find you work about these premises; you’ll not be idle, I promise you.”
Dutifully, Davyd nodded.
“Well, then,” Gahame said, “follow me and I’ll introduce you to your fellows.” He strode away, Davyd at his heels.
Davyd thought this Rupyrt Gahame seemed a decent enough master. Save for this disturbing business of the church, he thought he’d landed on his feet. He wondered how Flysse and Arcole fared, and when he might see them again.
Flysse followed Dido, wondering how the woman could be so thin. Mistress Banlyn had ruled the cookhouse of the Flying Horse, and she had been, to put it kindly, an ample
woman. But Dido, for all she was undoubted mistress of the mansion’s kitchen, was gaunt. She looked to Flysse as if she hardly are, her pale skin stretched tight over prominent bones so that she appeared all hollows and sharp angles that gave her a forbidding appearance. Her narrow face suggested asperity, but as yet she had shown Flysse only kindness.
Flysse had felt nervous when Benjamyn brought her to the cook—much as she had felt when first she approached the patroness of the Flying Horse—so she had curtsied and stood silent as the majordomo introduced her. But then he had left and Dido had given warm greeting, escorting her personally to the room she was to share with the three other scullions and the five housemaids. It had looked to Flysse neither worse nor better than her quarters in the tavern, and the underclothes and dirndl she must wear afforded her no embarrassment—it seemed to her quite natural that servants should be uniformed. She thought that Arcole must find it far harder, for he was quite unaccustomed to that lowly station; she thought that in this respect she was likely better suited to her newfound station. It was, after all, not so different from what she had known in Evander.
She listened obediently as Dido outlined her duties, and told her something of the mansion’s arrangement. She was to heed the cook in all matters, save when Benjamyn or Chryselle gave direct instruction—which, Dido explained, was unlikely, Flysse being at present the lowest of the low and therefore beneath their notice. she was to bathe regularly—Dido would not tolerate unwashed kitchen maids—and keep her clothes clean. She was forbidden the main part of the house, but might move freely in the kitchen and the yards behind. She was to be modest—there were six footmen and, now, three stablemen, and they would likely seek her favors, she being, Dido must admit, a pretty little thing. She was to ignore their blandishments, and did any invite her to their quarters, she was to refuse them and report their lewdness to Dido or Benjamyn.
She had asked then, “Does Arcole sleep there, by the stables?”
And Dido had studied her with a shrewd eye and asked in turn, “He’s your sweetheart?”
