by Neil McGarry
Her initial impulse was to linger on the fringes of the group, but she decided it was better to blend in. By this time tomorrow the baron's men might be asking questions, and she did not want to be remembered as the quiet one. She was just considering what to say to them when one of the girls suddenly turned, with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on her lips. "And who's this now? We've plenty of hands as it is, no need for more." She was shorter than Duchess but broader of hip, with a cluster of pimples next to her nose.
Duchess hesitated, caught off-guard. She should have considered making up a false name, but with all of the preparations with Lysander and Minette it had completely slipped her mind. In that instant every name she'd ever known flew from her head, and she stared blankly. The girl blinked. "Fall on your head this morning, did you?" she mocked, and the other girls laughed. So Duchess might not be remembered as the quiet one; instead she'd be known as the stupid one.
There was a hush at the approach of a man Duchess recognized as Ahmed, and the girls turned expectantly to see who would be chosen and who would spend the morning waiting for another prospect. Duchess was brought up short seeing Ahmed again, until she realized that only a highly ranked servant would see to the selection of temporary staff for such an important party. "I need ten," Ahmed told the blackarms. "The least likely to cause trouble."
"This isn't my normal post, you understand, but I can tell you them that was here first," the shorter of the guards replied, pointing. "This one, and this one, and those three there. As to the others, I don't recall, but that one looks strong and not too stupid." The named girls smiled smugly, while the others held their breath. The choosing went on, the blackarms recommending and Ahmed sometimes agreeing, and Duchess herself was selected last, on the recommendation of the short guard. "She looks like she's used to hard work," the man said, and Duchess detected something a bit rehearsed in his tone. More of Minette's work.
"You'd better be right," Ahmed said, "or you'll answer to the baron." He gestured impatiently to the selectees. "Come along and look sharp. There's a dreadful pile of work and not much time." Duchess fell in amongst the chosen, eliciting a howl from the pimply girl. "But she doesn't even know her own name!" she wailed. Her protests were soon lost to the distance and the sounds of the morning bustle. As they moved off, Duchess casually slipped the green ribbon from her hair and dropped it into the street. Now that she'd been picked by the gate guards, she no longer needed it.
As the girls followed Ahmed through the Gate and along the Way behind the last beggars, the girl next to Duchess whispered, "I heard it was a costume ball. And that the baron's son will be there. A pretty one, or so they say." Duchess had heard it all before from Lorelei, of course, but it was news to the rest, who passed the gossip along the line. Part of Duchess wished she could share their innocent excitement, but there would be no enjoyment for her tonight, no matter how lovely the party – or the baron's son – might be. She might very well end the night not with a stolen dagger but a lost hand. If she were lucky.
They passed the Godswalk and turned down the street towards the Eusbius estate, and Duchess tried to gawk as if she had not been this way only the day before. Ahmed ushered them not to the main gate but through a postern that was smaller and less noticeable, watched over by a guard in house livery. The guard produced a large key and unlocked the iron-bound door to admit them, and swung it closed after they had passed the wall.
Inside, all was opulence. The courtyard was covered in new-grown grass and cut through by paths of crushed white stone, as Duchess had seen through the main gate. Statuary, mostly of religious figures, was scattered about here and there, their bases artfully twined with ivy. Vines also climbed across the neat stable and carriage house that stood across the courtyard. A splashing fountain graced the center of the space, surrounded by bright flowers even now tended by gardeners in leather and roughspun. The manor house was a handsome building of gray stone outfitted with carved wooden shutters, leering gargoyles and delicate, wrought-iron balconies. Behind the house stood what was either a topiary or a hedge maze. This time, Duchess did not have to pretend to gawk. Whatever could be said of Eusbius, he had certainly not stinted on his new home. Duchess tried to take in every detail; she might need that knowledge, later.
Ahmed led them around the side of the manor house towards what Duchess presumed was the kitchen, and there she saw a white stone staircase leading down to a building partially buried in the ground. Her breath caught in her throat. The cold house. She'd need to get there at some point during the day to make certain her plan would work.
The kitchen door opened before Ahmed could even reach for the handle, revealing a large, thick-limbed woman wearing a stained apron over a dress that seemed made from yards and yards of brown wool. Her dull green eyes flicked over the group of girls, and her lips tightened as if she were displeased by what she saw. "This the best you could find?" she said without preamble. "Well, I take what Ventaris sends me. Hopefully one of them will be useful."
Ahmed glanced disdainfully at her, then turned to the girls. "I am Ahmed, the steward, and this is Malia, our cook. Four of you will work for her, and-"
"Five," Malia said firmly, without looking at Ahmed. "And I'll want those who can cook…really cook."
Ahmed glowered at her. "Malia, we discussed this…"
"And you didn't hear a word I said. I haven't finished the bread dough, much less the soup and the other courses. With the way things are going, I'll be starting dessert while dinner is being served!" Ahmed began a protest, but Malia brushed him aside and faced the girls. "So, which of you has ever stirred a kettle? Carried a tray? Kneaded dough? Tell me true, or you'll end the night with empty pockets and a beating with a spoon. A big one." She looked them up and down. "Come on, step up. Haven't got all day." Duchess hesitated. Working in the kitchens would give her a reason to check out the cold house, but with a broom in hand she could explore the manor. She had Brenn's description, true, but he'd seen little of the house and nothing of the third floor. But she might arouse less suspicion in the kitchen…
Four girls were already stepping forward, and Duchess joined them, hoping she'd made the right choice. Malia moved along the line, eyeing each in turn. "You hardly look big enough to stir a kettle, much less lift one," she said to a slight, brown-haired girl who cringed back as if slapped. To another she said, "Got those arms from carrying water, I'd guess." When she came to Duchess she said, "You've got flour under your fingernails. Get that from making bread or stealing it?" Her breath smelled of onions.
"Making," Duchess said. A witty rejoinder would likely get her a smack with that spoon and not a job in the kitchen, so she held her tongue. Malia nodded. "Then I've got my five. This way, let's go." She moved towards the door, motioning the girls to follow and leaving Ahmed behind to fume impotently. Duchess stole a final look back just as the door closed behind them, and was struck again at how familiar Ahmed seemed. She'd probably seen someone who looked like him; after pushing a bread cart around the Shallows a few years, everyone started looking familiar.
The kitchen was massive and as newly refitted as the rest of the house. It was furnished with several stone ovens, and one wall was dominated by an enormous hearth already alive with fire. At the far end were sinks large enough to bathe in, although at the moment they were dry as far as she could tell. Huge wooden tables filled the room, some covered in pots, pans, bowls and platters and others with food: piles of carrots and onions, sacks of flour, wheels of cheese and cuts of meat. Duchess had never seen so much food in one place. One of the tables was floury; evidently Malia had been just starting on the bread when she'd been interrupted by Ahmed and his charges.
"That man is worse than useless," Malia said to no one. "As usual, it's up to us to get things done around here. The men rule the house but the women keep the roof from falling in." Malia rounded on the cluster of girls, as if suddenly remembering they were there. Duchess raised her hand. "Yes?" snapped Malia. "So what can you do?"
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br /> "I could start that dough for you." She indicated the floury table.
Malia regarded her for a moment. "What's your name?"
This time Duchess was ready. "Rina," she replied. That was close enough to her real name that she'd remember to answer to it, but nothing anyone could use to track her down later. It seemed to satisfy Malia.
"Well, Rina, there's flour, yeast and water. Let's see what you can do." Duchess moved to the table, while Malia set the other girls to chopping vegetables, drawing water and slicing cheese. This she could do; she hadn't spent eight years working in a bakery without learning how to make dough. As she mixed the ingredients she considered how she should perform. Too well and she'd be remembered; too poorly, and there'd be no chance of her staying on through the evening. Of course, back in the bakery there had been some argument about how good her bread ever was, but that might have just been Noam prodding her ego. The old baker rarely gave out praise. The sudden pang of nostalgia for that life, not a week gone, surprised her. She'd been playacting, pretending to be one of Noam's daughters, but underneath she'd always known better. All that the last few days had taken from her was a comfortable illusion.
She made a good dough, kneaded and rolled it, set it on a wooden platter and started on the next batch, welcoming the soothing familiarity of the task. As she worked her mind went back to the daily routine of her life at the bakery. Each morning she and Noam's eldest daughter Lani would fill the cart with breads, biscuits, and buns from the shelves at the shop, then Duchess would wheel the load to the outdoor stall where Noam himself waited to serve the crowds that thronged the market. After Duchess had stocked the stall it was back to the kitchens to fill the pushcart with a second load that she then wheeled through the streets, selling to sailors, whores, merchants, wellborn, and anyone else with a hunger and a copper. The cart was heavy and had one bad wheel that turned on every rut in the cobbled streets, but the smell of morning bread clung to her like perfume, and most of the customers were friendly and familiar.
By afternoon the tarts would be ready, and the smell that surrounded her was apples and blueberries and raspberries, although the ruts were the same. The tarts were more expensive and more coveted, and she had to be especially careful of the many street urchins who were only too glad to snatch an unguarded treat when the opportunity presented. Most of them lacked the courage for more than a dash and a grab, but there were a few who dared more. Lani was stronger even than most of the boys, and in the days she had charge of the cart she would send them running with a dark look and a swing of the long, oaken walking stick Noam provided for just such occasions. However, when Duchess took over the daily chore it was discovered that she lacked both the height and the might to swing the stick with enough conviction to scare off any but the most timid thieves. Noam had a solution for that as well, and the slender knife he'd taught Duchess to use made scarcely a bulge in her boot. She would never have thought a baker could be so adept with a blade. She'd never seriously hurt anyone, but she'd sent more than one tart-grabber running with a bloody hand and no tarts.
It hadn't been a bad life, Duchess reflected as she sprinkled dough on the board. She enjoyed trading gossip with weavers, candle makers, cobblers, tailors, and other merchants who made their living in the market. She savored the tales that she heard from the sailors off the cogs and galleys anchored in the bay, or the soldiers newly returned from the borderlands. She moved from stall to stall and tale to tale, leaving bread, collecting coin, carrying news and serving as a spoke on the great wheel of rumor and innuendo that turned endlessly in Rodaas.
The crack of Malia's spoon brought her back to the present; Lita had spilled a bowl of chopped onions and had gotten a whack from the cook. "There are more onions over there, get to them, but if you spill this batch I'll have to find myself a bigger spoon," Malia threatened, glowering. The kitchen around her was alive with kettle-stirring and pot-washing as the other girls busied themselves. Other than the onion-spilling and Tanee's burning herself on some broth, the preparations went smoothly, with Malia presiding over all like some culinary general. She worked as hard as any of the girls, but no matter how absorbed in her tasks she seemed she was aware of every chop, stir and sprinkle that went on around her. As far as Duchess could see, only Malia and a slender gray-haired woman named Marta were regular help; the rest were day workers like Duchess. Whatever wealth the baron possessed evidently wasn't spent on permanent staff.
By the time Duchess had filled the platter with uncooked loaves she'd worked out a way to get out to the cold house. "Ma'am, about this dough…" Malia, who was chopping meat with a large cleaver, glanced at her impatiently. "If there's somewhere cold to keep it for awhile, the bread will rise better." She didn't have to pretend to be intimidated; that cleaver was blood-flecked and looked sharp. Very sharp. But Malia only nodded with approval.
"You do know bread, don't you?" She brought the cleaver down with a bang. "There's a cold house you passed on the way in. Those stone steps just outside the door, did you see them? Take the dough down there and put it on a shelf, and mind you don't fall into the water. Bring back as many crocks of butter as you can carry; the baron hates butter that's too hard to spread and it'll need time to warm up." Duchess needed no further prompting; she scooped up the tray and dodged through the kitchen chaos and out into the courtyard.
The sun was higher, near twelfth bell, and the estate was busier. Grooms were mopping out the carriage house and gardeners were clipping grass and trimming hedges. There were more guards around as well; she noted four on the main gate and two standing alert at the postern. The baron was not taking any chances, although he was keeping the Brutes out of sight, at least for the moment. The postern guards noticed her scrutiny and one of them, a tall man with a lazy eye, leered at her. She hurried to the sunken stairs and descended, her feet scuffing against the stone.
She shouldered through the heavy wooden door at the bottom and entered the small, chill stone room that sounded of running water and whose walls were lined with wooden shelves. On those shelves were bags and boxes of meat, fruit, cheese and other foodstuffs. No wine racks, but then the baron would probably not want to store his vintage here where any servant could get at it. A large channel, three feet wide and four deep, emerged from under an arch in one wall and disappeared into another on the opposite side.
Out of the sun, in the sudden chill of shadow she was six again on a bright summer day when her brother Justin had led her down the stairs, down into the dark of the cold house on her father's country estate, to fetch a plum. That cold house had stood beside a river, cooled by the tunnels that channeled a part of the flow through and beneath the half-sunken building. Their father had forbidden them to go there by themselves - he feared they might fall into the water and be swept away underground - but Justin had never listened to what Father said. They had eaten the plum right there, the dark juice running down their chins, shivering even though summer heat reigned just outside.
She set the platter on one of the shelves and crept to the channel. In the dim light that filtered down the stairs she could make out a steady flow of water, moving more swiftly than she would have guessed. Her father's estate had stood on level ground, but of course House Eusbius was on the great hill of Rodaas, so naturally the water in his cold house would run more quickly. Duchess guessed the water to be at least two feet deep. She eyed the channel warily, feeling a chill not wholly due to the cold. She looked around for a door that connected to the house cellars, but found none. The only way into the cold house was by the courtyard, which should be deserted by the time the party was in full swing. Or so she hoped.
She decided to get back to work before her absence was noted, but on the way out she paused to examine the cold house door. She was no Lysander, but the lock looked simple enough for her to handle on her own. Or so she also hoped.
* * *
The rest of the day was a blur. After Duchess returned from the cold house Malia set her to making pie crusts,
and then fetching and chopping fruit for pies: apple, cherry and blueberry. The fruit was stored in the cold house, which gave Duchess the excuse for another look. Pies were harder than bread, but Duchess welcomed the distraction; the work kept her mind off the dangers to come. The kitchen help was allowed a quick mid-afternoon meal of bread smothered in bacon drippings and onions, and then it was back to work. Malia, having grumpily approved of Duchess' work with the pies, set her to the honeycakes, while the other girls washed potatoes, ground salt, and seasoned the spitted meat that was turning slowly over the fire. From time to time Ahmed would pop in, asking frantic questions. Had the flowers arrived? Where were the extra costumes? How many benches should be brought up from the cellars? The answers, invariably, were the same. "I don't know." "It's not my job." "Get out of my kitchen." Ahmed and Malia each wore a large ring of keys, she noticed, and she wondered if she might lift one of them in case Lysander was unable to smuggle in his lock picks.
The dough had chilled long enough, she judged, so before Malia could point that out she made her way back to the cold house. On the way back with a heavy tray of dough, she passed two girls who had been sent to polish silver, taking a break in the spring air and hoping Ahmed did not catch them. Duchess slowed so she could listen to their talk.
