by Kate Elliott
“It just isn’t fair! We have to pretend to be proper officer’s daughters even though no one will ever believe we are. It’s Father’s reputation we are protecting, not ours!”
Yet alongside my furious ranting, my mind races, assessing options, adapting to the way the situation has just changed. None of their arguments matter anyway. With Father in residence I have no hope of sneaking out when his aides and servants are looking for the slightest break in the strict routine they impose.
I circle back to the couch. “Very well. I’ll accompany you, if you’ll cover for me.”
Amaya grabs my wrist. “You can’t mean to sneak out of Lord Ottonor’s balcony to run under everyone’s noses! In front of Father! What if he recognizes you?”
“No one will recognize me, because Fives competitors wear masks. It’s just one run.”
Maraya pries Amaya’s fingers off my arm. “Jes is right. No one ever knows who adversaries are if they don’t win. It’s only when they get to be Challengers or Illustrious that people can tell who they are by the color of their tunic or by their tricks and flourishes. No one will guess it is Jes because they won’t think she’s out there.”
I grab Maraya and kiss her. “Yes! Here’s how we’ll do it. There’s bound to be small retiring rooms for the women at the back of the balcony. Mother won’t use the one assigned to her because she’ll think it her duty to remain out on the public balcony the entire time so everyone knows Father’s not ashamed of her. I can claim to have a headache and pretend to rest in the retiring room. Amaya just has to make sure no one goes back to see me.”
Amaya’s eyes narrow as she works through her options.
“You can wheedle Father, Amiable,” I add, “but you can’t wheedle me.”
She grunts out a huff of displeasure. “Very well. But you owe me, Jes.”
“Agreed!”
I tap my chest twice, which is the command Father has always used when he wants his soldiers, his servants, or his daughters to obey without question. And when he lets us know we have fulfilled his orders to his exacting specifications.
She straightens into the stance of a soldier at attention and taps her own chest twice in answer. Then she ruins the martial posture by jumping up and down with her arms raised.
“Thank you, Jes. Thank you! Wait until Denya finds out we get to watch the trials together and practice flirting.”
She scrawls out a note to her friend and calls for a servant. A boy hurries out from the kitchen wing. His mouth is smeared with honey from a sweet bun he has sneaked off Cook’s table. He’s a scamp of a boy, maybe ten years old, one of Mother’s rescues off the street. My father gave him the name Monkey because Father names all our Efean servants after plants or animals. But when Father is not home Mother calls him by his Efean name, Montu-en.
“Run this over to Captain Osfiyos’s house at once, Monkey,” declaims Amaya in her best Patron voice, all condescension and clipped-short words. “Give it into the hands of the personal maidservant of Doma Denya, no one else.”
“Yes, Doma.” The boy takes the folded paper and dashes off. I envy his freedom to race through the streets of an evening and loiter on his way back.
Amaya seals away all her writing things, then pauses to look at Maraya, who has gone back to reading. “Merry, I don’t think your foot is cursed and Mother doesn’t either. I’m sorry. That was mean of me.” She grins, mischief lighting her face to its prettiest. “Not that I mind being mean, but I like to save it for times when it will improve my social standing.”
Maraya laughs, and so do I. All my pent-up frustration spills into a river of expectation, a rush carrying me into this new scheme.
The maidservant assigned to serve us girls appears at the curtain, looking curiously toward us as if wondering what we have to laugh about, the daughters of heroic Captain Esladas and the beautiful woman he can never marry.
Maraya closes her book and signals that the maidservant, whom Father named Coriander, may approach and speak.
“Doma Maraya.” Coriander uses the formal term even though we can’t actually claim the right to be addressed as Doma, for it is a term properly used only for women born into the Patron class. It is not meant for girls whose father is a Patron but whose Mother is emphatically a Commoner. Yet inside our house Father insists the servants call us by the title. “Doma Jessamy. Doma Amaya. Your supper is ready for you in your rooms. Will Doma Bettany be joining you?”
Maraya glances toward the sky. “Only the oracles know.”
As we leave the courtyard with its bright lamps, I smile, eager for tomorrow.
3
When he was twenty, my father left his homeland of Saro-Urok and came to the land of Efea to make his fortune. The very day he arrived on the wharfs he saw a sixteen-year-old Commoner girl in the market and fell in love with her beauty. This is not a remarkable story. As foreigners say, there are more women in Efea than stars in the sky. The foreign men who come here to make careers in the royal service are generally young and unmarried and thus quick to fall into and out of love.
What is remarkable is that my father has stayed loyal to my mother for twenty years.
Even though he is only a baker’s son, he is still considered Patron-born. Patrons are people either born in the old empire of Saro or descended from ancestors who emigrated from Saro to Efea any time in the last hundred years. The law forbids people of Saroese ancestry from marrying the native people of Efea, who are called Commoners.
As Father moved up the military ranks he could have contracted a marriage with a Patron woman to help advance his army career. It is the usual path for ambitious and successful Patron men. Commoner girls are for youthful liaisons. Patron wives are for status and sons.
That all he has to show for the relationship with our mother is four daughters, two stillborn sons, and several miscarriages makes his loyalty all the more unusual. Most Patron men would have abandoned one Commoner concubine and taken another, hoping for a son. Most Patron men would have smothered Maraya at birth and handed unlucky twin girls like Bettany and me over to the temple.
Father did none of those things.
But I’m certain he will kill me if he finds out I’ve been running the Fives during the months and years he is away from home at the wars.
4
Every victory procession parades along the wide boulevard called the Avenue of Triumphs. Mother and Amaya and I wait at the side of the avenue in the family carriage, which has a roof for shade against the blistering sun and bead curtains to conceal us from improper gazes. I am strung too tight by the thought of running the Fives to care about the procession, but when Amaya parts the strings to peek through I scoot up beside her, realizing that I am excited after all. I don’t want to miss a single thing.
“Look! Here they come!” Amaya is bouncing on the seat hard enough to make the carriage rock. “Make sure you remember everything so we can tell Maraya all about it!”
“Bett, too!”
Amaya sniffs. “As if she cares.”
Mother sits calmly but she is also holding the beads to one side so she can see.
First the horse guards sashay past. Everyone cheers and whistles as the horses prance and the proud cavalrymen show off their splendid uniforms of flowing gold silk and red leather boots trimmed with golden tassels. Next ride the royal heralds flying purple banners marked with the white sea-phoenix, the badge of the royal house. Blasts from their curved trumpets announce the approach of the royal carriage.
Cheers fade into a sullen quiet.
The royal carriage is open for all to see, and today both the king’s and the queen’s seats are empty. That is not unusual; the royal carriage leads the way in every victory, festival, and funeral procession whether anyone sits in it or not. Perhaps it is for the best. The crowd’s harsh murmurs remind me how unpopular the king and queen have become.
Abruptly shouts of praise and triumphal whistling begin again as people see Prince Nikonos. The king and queen’s younge
r brother sits in a smaller carriage that follows right behind the royal carriage. He wears formal robes of purple and gold. His hair is cut short in the fashion of soldiers because he is a soldier too. He stares straight ahead as people press their right hands to their hearts and offer the bow of gratitude.
Mother and Amaya and I do the same even though no one can see us. When we straighten, the royal stewards’ carriage is passing. They fling coins into the crowd.
“Mother, please!” says Amaya. “Can I jump out and grab one? They say a royal coin brings good fortune.”
“No, Amaya, it would displease your father,” says Mother in a kind but firm tone. “This is not the day to draw attention in such a way.”
By now even Mother is shifting restlessly as musicians march past, drumming and singing and trumpeting to announce the arrival of the soldiers being honored in the procession. The victory carriages are garlanded with flowers and ribbons. The first two hold lords, who always take primacy regardless of what they accomplished in the field, and the third holds the generals who actually commanded the army. Lesser officers will follow in the lesser carriages.
“Mother! Mother! Do you see him?” Amaya jerks forward, almost sticking her whole head through the beads until I drag her back.
My mouth drops open in utter amazement. Father is seated alone in the third carriage, dressed in his best polished leather armor and holding the brass-studded whip that marks his captain’s rank. He looks so dignified and solemn that if it weren’t for the whip no one would ever guess he isn’t really a general.
Never in my life and dreams have I ever imagined such remarkable distinction would be shown to a humble baker’s son.
Mother looks radiant as she wipes tears of joy from her cheeks, but she says nothing. All around us I hear people talking about the stunning victory at Maldine.
Am I really going to risk running the trial after I have seen this? I grip my fingers together like I can squeeze all the heart out of me and leave only dry sand. The dutiful part of me knows I should just let it go, be obedient, don’t take the risk. But it could take me another year to scrape together enough coin to pay the entry fee. Anything could happen. What if I never have this chance again? Just once I want to run a real trial and pretend to be a different girl with a different life.
The lesser officers pass, followed by ranks of victorious soldiers and then wagons heaped with captured weapons. As high-ranking prisoners in chains shuffle past, the ground begins to tremble with thuds. A deathly hush spreads across the gathered crowd.
A cohort of spider scouts brings up the rear of the procession. The spiders are giant eight-legged mechanisms, each one given life by magic and directed by a soldier strapped into the carapace of the metal beast. They are mostly used in the desert, where they can move quickly and for longer distances than foot soldiers or cavalry. On the avenue they clank along with an ominous thunder that causes the packed crowds to cower.
It makes me angry to see people afraid, because my father served with distinction as a spider scout in his first years in the Efean army. I squeeze Amaya’s hand. “People should remember how often spider scouts catch bandits trying to sneak into villages and towns! They should be thankful, not scared!”
“Denya says the king never calls them into the city unless he means to wield them against his most dangerous secret enemies,” she whispers. “Anyway, they’re creepy. Don’t you wonder how the priests use magic to wake up a metal body and make it live?”
“No. I have enough to think about,” I mutter, remembering that the biggest event of my life is about to happen.
The victory procession moves out of sight along the Avenue of Triumphs. As the crowd thins out, our carriage takes a side street up the Queen’s Hill to the City Fives Court. Mother’s eyes are still closed, as if she is seeing the parade again in her mind’s eye.
After what seems like forever, our carriage arrives at the plaza in front of the court.
A Fives court is the name we give the playing field on which the game of Fives is run. It is also what everyone calls the huge, round, roofless stone building, several stories high, that rings the playing field and where spectators sit to watch, gossip, bet, eat, drink, and cheer.
From all over the city people are streaming into the court to find seats. Trials are held every Fivesday but because of the victory procession today’s trial will be especially crowded.
Our carriage comes to rest in a fenced-off yard reserved solely for the Patron-born. We wait until Father arrives. He has changed out of his armor into formal attire, a waist-length fitted tunic and a draped ankle-length skirt called a keldi and worn only by men. Captain’s whip in hand, he escorts our party through a private entrance that leads past the tiered seating where Commoners cram together and up to the special section where only Patrons may sit. When we attend the games as a family, Father rents a box in this section with cushioned benches and attendants to hold umbrellas to block out the sun.
Today, however, he leads us to the private tiers where Patron lords enjoy the trials, cordoned off even from ordinary Patrons. At an archway flanked by guards, Father flashes an ivory token. The guards wave him through with formal congratulations on the great victory. They carefully do not glance at Amaya, but they eye me in my linen finery. I can tell they are wondering how I fit in.
Father ushers us toward a balcony box marked by a flag depicting a three-horned bull, the badge of Lord Ottonor’s clan. Lord Ottonor stands at the entrance greeting each of his guests. They are all men whose careers he has sponsored in the military, the administrative service, or mercantile ventures. He greets Father with the look of a man who cannot believe his great fortune at having discovered gold baked within a humble loaf of bread.
“Captain Esladas! You have brought glory upon Clan Tonor!”
“It is all due to your magnanimity, Lord Ottonor,” says Father in his usual serious tone.
Lord Ottonor’s smile acknowledges his own generosity in giving Father the chance to excel. When he sees Mother he blushes a little and clasps his hands together like a shy lad who doesn’t quite know what to say. He is careful not to touch her. “Here is the lovely Kiya. ‘What a soothing sight beauty is to the weary heart.’”
It is a quote from a popular play.
Mother never bows nor cringes before Patrons. She has the knack of smoothing all paths. “Your gracious welcome honors us and our daughters, Lord Ottonor.”
“Your daughters!” His eyebrows arch as he sees us standing behind her.
“This is Jessamy,” she says.
Obviously I am not what he expected, looking so like a Commoner as I do.
“Your gracious welcome honors us, Lord Ottonor,” I say in my sweetest voice, with a glimpse toward Father to see if my tone and expression are acceptable. Father gives me an approving nod.
“Here is Amaya,” says Mother as Amaya pushes herself forward.
Amaya makes a graceful bow, one perfectly appropriate to an unmarried Patron girl greeting an elderly lord. “‘What honor the generous lord bestows upon we the humble among his servants.’”
A genuine smile lights his face. “A line from The Hide of the Ox. Do I make the acquaintance of another devotee of the theater?”
She arranges her prettiest expression on her pretty face. “I am the most ardent of devotees of the theater, Lord Ottonor. I have seen you there in your box, if you do not mind my saying so. Of course my family attends when we can. I am also sometimes allowed to attend with Captain Osfiyos’s household. His daughter Denya is my particular friend.”
“Delightful! What a lovely girl, Esladas!”
Father moves us along with just enough haste that I realize how whenever we are in public he does his best to prevent us from speaking to Patron men. People are taking their places, ready for the trials to start. Every part of the floor of the court except the central victory tower is covered with canvas, concealing the layout of today’s obstacles. The covers will only be pulled back when the first tr
ial starts. I want to be out there so badly that I can taste the kick of the sawdust and the grit of chalk. I have to check in before the gate to the undercourt closes or I’ll forfeit.
My mouth goes dry. I’m going to do it even though I know I shouldn’t. I’ll be obedient forever after this. I will.
As Father settles Mother into a chair I lag behind, patting my forehead with a scrap of cloth and pretending to grimace in pain. Amaya points me out to him and he walks back to me.
“Jessamy? It’s not like you to retreat from a challenge. I hope you are not afraid of appearing in public.”
“Of course not, Father. The noise and dust have given me a headache. If I can close my eyes for a little without being disturbed, I am sure I will feel better right away and I will come back out.”
He nods. I slip into the long tent that stretches along the back of Lord Ottonor’s box. Curtains divide the interior into small private rooms. Coriander is waiting at the far end of the tent. She quickly slips a servant’s blank leather mask over her face. Seeing me, she relaxes and pulls the mask off. We go into the tiny retiring room where she has stowed our satchels.
“Give me your servant’s token,” I say.
She hands over a cord strung with a servant’s ivory pass. “As you command, Doma.”
“If anyone comes looking for me, fetch Amaya.”
She nods and goes out. I pull my game clothes out of the satchel: a short tunic, leggings, and shoes sewn out of a leather so supple that they fit my feet like gloves fit hands. I change quickly and pull an ankle-length green tunic over everything. My mother embroidered the sleeves and collar herself. It’s nothing fancy, the kind of linen sheath gown a Commoner girl would wear in the market. A gauzy shawl conceals my hair, and one of the plain leather masks worn by servants conceals my features. Then I get on my belly and peek out from under the tent’s base, which isn’t pegged down. A servants’ aisle runs between the back of the tent and the tall stone back wall of the Court. In a moment when no servants are in sight, I wriggle out.
