We filed out, Calla in the lead, all silent, all shivering in the early morning chill. There were four of us: myself, Calla and Sibba and Beliso, the two youngsters who would be our watchdogs in the scullery. The streets were empty between the looming tenements; the Great Garden was a pool of darkness, rustling with dogs and shulls feeding on the dross of yesterday's market. We cut across it past the white glimmer of the Lady, on to a broad thoroughfare that was the remnant of the Scions' Ride, linking the Great Garden with the south gate of Gilgard Castle. The seven stone arches that once spanned the Ride were gone; at the castle end, where the Silver Gate used to stand, was an ugly rampart of reused masonry, broken by a massive gate inset with a small door. I could guess where the arches had gone.
"They tore down the arches to build that," Sibba whispered, unconsciously confirming my guess. She was a small girl with a plain, pleasant face, who had sat with me playing finger-sticks a few times during my recovery from the Gil-gut. As far as finger-sticks went, we were evenly matched; anything else, I couldn't say. Beliso was even smaller, with beautiful white teeth and terrible skin. He was said to be the only Webling who looked better in street camouflage than out of it, because the dirt covered his pimples. The two of them seemed more typical of the youth of Gil than Calla—cheekier, lighter in manner when no Sherank were about, and somehow less honest; they reminded me of beggar-youth I'd seen in Sathelforn. Calla had more of the Heroic Code in her design, though I would never have dared to tell her so.
We slogged through the mud of the dark streets, Sibba and Beliso a few paces ahead. I took advantage of that distance to whisper to Calla, "Bekri knows, doesn't he?"
"About what?"
"Stop it, Calla! About us, about last night. Does he know?"
"Well, what of it?"
That was an impossible question. I trudged along by her side trying to work out a sensible answer, then gave it up. Anyway, I told myself, the entire council probably knew, given the disastrous start to my ritual send-off, and not one of them had lifted an eyebrow. And what, I demanded, was the etiquette of sex? I hadn't the faintest notion. The Secrets of the Ancients were mute on the subject, and all the Heroic Code held was a section on cold showers. All I could be sure of was that seduction by Calla had been astonishing, illuminating, revelatory and exceptionally pleasant, and had pushed fear firmly to the back of my head.
The sky was greying in the east as we neared the rampart gate, casting the graceless lines of the rooftops, warty with penthouse hovels, into silhouette. An array of Sherkin foot-soldiers trooped towards us, turning my stomach to water, but they passed without a glance. Ahead of us, I could see a small crowd gathering at the door; above them, just starting to catch the dawn, was the soaring miracle of the Gilgard. My heart thumped painfully against my ribs and I almost forgot about Calla for the moment.
We joined the mob at the little door as the light grew. A few of the hooded figures eyed us listlessly. Most ignored us. They stood in the muck of the street in apathetic clusters, not speaking, hands tucked into their armpits for warmth, chins drooping almost on to their chests. I glanced furtively around, trying to work out which of them might be members of the Web, until Sibba, who was closest, elbowed me discreetly in the side—eyes were safest when they didn't leave the ground for long. Which seemed to hold true even when no Sherank were in sight; which led me to wonder, in turn, who the Gillish traitors in our midst might be.
At last the small inset door opened and a pair of Sherkin troopers stepped out, followed by the fattest man I had ever seen in my life. He was bald and chalky-skinned, and a long sharp Koroskan nose thrust out between his plump cheeks. His little pouched eyes surveyed the crowd irritably. From Jebri's description, he had to be Flax, the head underchef, one of the Koroskans imported to run the Gilgard kitchens. He was not quite fat enough to be the chef.
"Come on, you lazy pack of shulls," he growled in heavily accented Gillish. "Where are the new ones? You two? You wait here. The rest of you to your places!" He disappeared inside.
Sibba and Beliso, who had taken their jobs several days before, shuffled in with the rest of the crowd. Calla and I waited, heads subserviently hanging, until the street was empty but for us and the two impassive troopers. I examined them covertly: well-fed, well-armed, well-cloaked against the cold. Beside them, Calla looked small and helpless, like a child flanked by giants. After some time, Flax's head appeared at the door again.
"Get in here! Shirking already, eh? We'll teach you how to work, you ugly piles of dung, but first I want to see your hands."
We followed him through the door into a dark tunnel through the thickness of the rampart, leading to a musty, flagged courtyard. We stuck our hands out. He inspected them with disgust, fully justified, and spat on the paving stones.
"Crusted with filth, like the rest of your dirty little country. Oh well, a few hours in the scullery will peel you of a layer or two. Take that corridor, and report to Master Calvo."
We started past him, but his fat hand shot out and grabbed Calla's shoulder. She stiffened. Appraisingly, he pushed her hood back, peered into her face, lifted her mass of stringy hair. "The men of Koroska," he remarked, "have more discerning eyes than those louts from Sher. There's something young and tasty under all that grime, isn't there, my petal?"
His hand moved slowly down her body, kneading here and there; her lips tightened, but she stood her ground. My hands twitched for a knife, for a club, for the feel of his fat throat. Calla saw me start to move, and warned me with a flick of her fingers: do nothing. At last he shoved her away, but not ungently.
"Too skinny, like all you bitches in Gil," he said. "Still, a few weeks in the kitchen may fatten you up if you make the right friends. This dirty little cockroach here, is he your man?"
"No," she said firmly, just before I could shout yes, I was, and I would kill him if he touched her again with his flabby paws. I caught the look in Calla's eye, and shut my mouth.
"It's as well for him he's not," Flax grinned. "Play the proper game, my flower, and you may find yourself a softer job." He slapped her playfully on the bottom, then roared at us to go. As we walked down the dark steamy corridor to the scullery, I was choking on anger and frustration.
"I wanted to kill him," I spat. "I swear, Calla, if he mauls you again, I'll—"
"I'm grateful for the intention, Tig," she interrupted calmly, "but you'll do nothing of the sort. You have a mission, remember? Anyway, I can take care of myself."
"Against that lump of oxlard?"
"Yes."
I stopped and swung her to face me. "You wouldn't—"
"Let him touch me?" She shrugged. "I suppose I'd have to. It happens all the time, though not yet to me. Anyway, he's probably just pimping for the Sherank."
"And that makes it better?" I stared at her, horrified.
"Well, it makes it no worse. Forget it, Tig, with luck we'll be in the between-ways tomorrow, and it will never come to anything." She started to walk on, but I stayed where I was.
"No. It's off, Calla. We'll have to think of another way to get me in. I can't—I won't let you—"
She faced me with her hands on her hips. She looked more pitying than impatient. "What are you worried about?"
"You know, that he'll—that they'll—" I groped for unfamiliar words. She laughed.
"Look here, Tigrallef, every woman in Gil takes that risk every day. Are you going to protect us all? Of course not, because you can't—except, perhaps, by finding the Lady."
"But—"
"As for what's happened between us," she added severely, "it is nothing to do with that. Do you understand?"
I bit back the words I really wanted to say, and surrendered. "All right. But I still don't like it."
We proceeded in silence to the door of the scullery, where wisps of steam eddied outwards in the draft. More than ever, Calla confused me; how could she be so proud, so fierce at times, and yet stand still for that fat Koroskan's touch? And last night—I buried the
thought of last night, but not before an aftershock of that rushing, flooding delightfulness shook my vitals. I glanced sideways at Calla and found her smiling at me affectionately.
"Good luck, Tig," she said.
I leaned forward and kissed her quickly on the mouth. Then, together, we stepped through the great door and into the scullery.
* * *
18
GREAT TANKS OF water bubbling above a furnace the size of my bedchamber; sweating crockers, dim beyond fogbanks of steam, elbow-deep in vats of dirty dishes. That was the scullery, or as much of it as I could see. Through an archway at the far end of the room I could make out a red, smoke-filled cavern, which I knew was the first of the kitchens proper. There was a powerful smell of baking bread in the air, underlaid by the rich reek of grilled meat. After several weeks on a diet of shull and sand-biscuit, it was maddening.
"Here comes Calvo," Calla whispered.
I followed her eyes. If I had not known Calvo was a Gilman and in the Web, I'd have taken him for a Koroskan, and a nasty one at that. Not that he was particularly fat—but he was clean and sleek and wore the white robe and red sash of a Koroskan mercenary cook, and he scowled ferociously at us as he approached.
"Move, you dirty little layabout sewer-lice," he growled. "I'll have you know right now there's no room in my scullery for any nose-picking, arse-heavy slackers." His fingers signalled: Welcome, my lord. You do us a great honour.
Calla and I cringed appropriately. On the edge of my vision, I became aware of a hulking Sherkin guard in full battledress, with the beak of his helmet pointed our way. "Come along, come along, why are you standing there like a pair of witless chickens?" Calvo went on irritably. He cuffed me on the side of the head, a hard, honest blow. Apologies, my lord. It has to look real. I'm sorry.
My blurred eyes barely caught the fingerwords. So am I, I signalled. I coughed and quavered, "Where do we—?"
He cuffed me again, not quite so hard. "Speak only when I tell you to, snot," he growled; and added: follow me, my lord. I've set aside a place where you'll be safe while you get your bearings.
He turned and marched through the roiling steam towards the far corner of the room, on the other side of the water-furnace. I felt, or imagined I felt, the Sherkin's dark eyes boring into my back through the slit in his helmet. Calvo led us to an empty vat and turned the spigot to start it filling from the tank of boiling water. He glowered around at the nearby crockers and they all looked away. The Sherkin guard was mistily visible where we had left him.
Calvo leaned close to us and spoke in a low voice. "I've assigned Sibba and Beliso to this vat as your feeders, and I've placed you close to the hidden door, as Bekri asked, but I understand you won't venture anywhere today. Is that correct?"
Calla murmured, "Yes, today we'll just be crockers. But you're arranging cover for tomorrow?"
"No problem about that. But I'm glad you're making no move today—our masters are feasting this afternoon and the scullery always seems to be short-handed. Tomorrow will be a lighter day." His voice changed suddenly. "Do you think you can manage that, you skittle-headed oaf?" Watch out! his fingers flashed.
I gulped. A menacing Sherkin silhouette was gliding towards us through the steam. "Oh yes, sir, I can manage that, sir," I said fervently. Calvo stalked away to rant at the cowering crockers by the next vat. The Sherkin moved on. I sighed and tested the water with my finger. It was scalding hot.
It seemed odd to me that the Sherank, notoriously horrid in their habits, could be so finicky about their tableware. Sibba and Beliso trooped back and forth from the maw of the dumbwaiter, hauling an endless supply of greasy trenchers, plates, beakers and krishank, the multiple-spouted drinking bottles shaped like fat-bodied spiders. Everything had to sparkle before it left our vat; particular care had to be taken to clear the delicate spouts of the krishank, which were plugged solid with dried lees by the time they reached us. The skinny bottle-brushes provided for this task left our fingertips scored and smarting; our eyes ached from peering up the tiny apertures. There came a bad moment when Calla nearly dropped one, and caught it just in time.
"Stupid design for a bottle anyway," she grumbled, cradling the vessel in her arms until Sibba could take it from her. "Look at it, as soon as you pour something in the top, it runs out these little spouts around the bottom. What use is that?"
"The fith-beer ceremony," I said, scouring away at a trencher. "Eight Sherank sit in a circle, with that thing in the middle. When the beer gets poured in the top, they have to drink together from the spouts as long as the supply lasts. It's supposed to signify brotherhood—suckled by the same beer-pot, something like that. Apparently it can get quite messy, so be glad we're not working in the laundry."
Calla looked at me curiously as Sibba bore the bottle off. "How did you know that?" she asked.
"I read about it. I read everything I could find about the Sherank. There's a fair amount in the archives in Exile." I passed the clean trencher over to Beliso, who had just arrived with another armload of dirty ones.
Calla plunged her hands into the water, looking profoundly thoughtful. "Well, then. Do you speak any Sheranik?" she asked in a guarded voice.
"Yes, not badly. I can read it, too. What about you?"
"I know some obscenities and insults. That's all we ever hear from them in Sheranik. Anything else gets said in Gillish."
"There's not much to Sheranik beyond that," I grinned. "There's no literature as such, just some folklore, mainly military and dynastic traditions. The grammar is simple once you get used to the tenses, though I admit I had difficulty with the vocabulary. Did you know they have seventeen different adverbs to describe the way blood exits from a wound? And thirty-three technical terms for positions on the blade of a sword? And twenty-six different words for—"
"Hush," Calla hissed.
"Huh?"
"I said, you still owe me three tokens, you scrounging bastard, and I want them back today." Don't look behind you.
My shoulders instinctively hunched. "I already paid you your pocketing tokens," I snapped. "And anyway, it was only two tokens."
"It was three—and you borrowed them back again the next day."
"That's shullshit! I never did!"
"You did so, you pig-son."
"Did not, bitch."
"Son of a shull."
"Hag."
We let our voices trail off into muttered insults, scrubbing industriously all the while. The menacing shadow that had swallowed my own on the surface of the vat gradually moved away, the only noise behind me being the faint clink-clink of well-oiled armour. When the Sherkin was definitely gone, I sighed with relief.
"That was not bad," Calla murmured. "You catch on quickly."
I suppressed a grin. Rule One in the code of the Web: if a Sherkin comes within earshot, pick a fight with the nearest friend. I suppose they thought if we were quarrelling amongst ourselves, we could hardly be hatching trouble for them—or maybe they just enjoyed the sound of a good row. It was something the Flamens-in-Exile would never have understood.
"I pray by the Lady he didn't hear what we were talking about," I whispered.
"He couldn't have. Or if he did hear, he couldn't have understood, otherwise we'd be halfway to the south dungeon by now. But Tig—"
"Hmmm?"
"Does Bekri know you can speak Sheranik?"
I peeled at a stubborn encrustation with my fingernail. "Yes, he knows. Strangely enough, he didn't seem very interested, just like the Flamens-in-Exile. They never bothered to teach it to any of the other Scions, you know. And I didn't learn it because of the mission, I studied it on my own long before the Flamens shipped me off to be a hero."
"Why on earth?"
"Out of interest. For pleasure. Perhaps because it was there. I always enjoyed studying languages."
"You have an odd idea of fun."
"That's what Arko always said. It's what I always said to Arko, too."
"Your brother? The one
who lost his leg? Tell me about him, Tig."
I rinsed a pair of beakers under the running water, thinking about Arko. Arkolef, the handsome one, the hero, the one who should have come; it struck me suddenly that, but for his accident, I would be working comfortably in the archives at this moment, while he would almost certainly be dead meat and bones. Perhaps back in Exile they were already in mourning for me—after all, I had been gone nearly six weeks, and one week was usually ample to kill a Scion. I watched the water fill the beakers and overflow into the vat. My mother would insist I was still alive, of course, but nobody would believe her.
"Tig? You can put those beakers down now. They're clean."
"Oh? Oh. Yes, of course." I placed the beakers upside-down on the stone draining board. Softly, as we worked, breaking off now and then for sessions of strategic name-calling, I told Calla about Arkolef, about my mother, about Exile, about the delights of the archives and the antics of my training Flamens. Somehow, the long dull hours passed. Believe it or not, I was happy.
Two things, however, hovered unpleasantly on the outskirts of my attention. One was the Sherkin guard; the other, a small door hidden by a cupboard, only a few paces behind and to the right of us. Its existence was marked on the map inside my head; I knew what lay beyond it. And I knew that my mission would truly begin when I opened that door. Tomorrow. The great roasting pans from the feast were the last things we crockers had to wash that day—so heavy that two feeders had to carry one between them, so big that each one filled an entire vat. Calla and I had to bend until our heads were inside the pan to get at the luscious scab of juices and charred meat fibres crusting the bottom. I took a deep sniff, dizzy with the intoxicating smell. Calla slapped my hand away as I reached down.
"Don't sample it," she warned me, "it's punishable."
I watched sadly as she threw the soap in and directed a stream of hot water on to the first appetizing food I'd seen in weeks. By the time we'd finished peeling and scouring and were ready to rinse the pan, my shoulders were creaking with the strain.
Gil Trilogy 1: Lady in Gil Page 13
