Yes, she kept speaking out of turn, but that was only because slaves never got a turn. There was never a right time for them to speak. She hung her head and answered very softly. "We haven't always been slaves. Two hundred and fifty years ago we were not slaves."
"Do you think I can wave my hand and take away two hundred and fif—" He broke off, coughing.
"And now you will take my two remaining brothers into slavery. You say you don't kill anyone, but my brothers will be killed fighting your war and that will kill my mother as surely as if you pointed a dragon stick at her and hit the ignition switch. Please, your highness. Forgive me for speaking out of turn. But please don't take them. Surely your army can do without those two little boys."
He swigged on his tonic and got his coughing under control. "What are you babbling about? War? Where would you get such an idea?"
"The prince dropped the parchment pages you signed in the—"
"You read pages that are none of your concern?" Anger burned in the king's eyes.
"But my brothers are my concern. When you take them to put them on the front lines of your war, I am very concerned."
"Your rumors will ruin me! We are not at war. Don't you dare breathe one more word of this nonsense."
She pressed back into the seat, trying to get away from his anger.
"What parchment did you read? I signed no parchment about war."
"I didn't read it. The prince was talking to a boy in the hall. He had dropped the parchment pages you signed in the carriage yesterday. He said something about a provision for the Ministry of War. He said all the boys between their sixth and fourteenth years would be taken to the trooper camp and would be trained for the front line."
The king's nostrils flared. "I signed nothing of the sort. We are not at war." He swallowed several times as if trying to calm himself.
Repentance waited.
The king sighed. "The kingdom is not at war, anyway. The prince and I? Oh, yes, we are at war."
Relief flooded her. There was no war.
"You needn't look so relieved," the king said. "The fact that my nephew is so bold as to slip a sheet of parchment into the provisions I signed for is all the more reason for me to punish you severely. I must show myself strong. I cannot allow your outburst to go unanswered. The thought that a slave could call me a warthog at my own table, and live, is unthinkable." His face looked gray and weary. "No wonder my nephew thinks he can get away with such a scheme. I've been too lax. Too willing to let him run the kingdom. Too kind to insolent servants. Well ... no more."
"And that's why I was relieved, your highness. I could see that you will not let the prince get away with this. I can go to the swingman in peace, knowing you will keep my brothers safe from the prince."
His face softened. He pushed himself from the chair, grimacing over painful hips or knees, she supposed. Maybe both. "I must needs take my weary bones to bed. It's been an exhausting week. And now it looks as if my nephew is going to give me no rest in the immediate future." He paused, thinking, then looked at her. "And you? What will I do with you? Rescuing young women from virile young princes is no easy task for a man of my advanced years. And the thanks I get for my efforts? You insult me to my face in front of the servants. I'll pronounce judgment on you tomorrow."
He toddled out.
An hour later she lay in her bed, the suncloths on her walls filling the room with artificial daylight. How was a person to sleep?
Her head ached. Her heart felt tight and sore. And she kept going over in her mind the words of the king and thinking about the arguments she'd made. Maybe she should have said less about slaves and murder.
But her brothers were safe. For the time being. So she couldn't be too sorry for the whole exchange.
Still ... she should have told the king she was sorry even if she wasn't.
Had she even apologized for calling him a warthog?
It hadn't come up.
She should have at least apologized for that.
She should have apologized to others, too. She spent the night thinking about her family. Remembering mean things she'd said to the people she loved best and wishing she could tell them how much she loved them.
She even thought about Goodwoman Marsh.
And Sober with his earnest expression as he pronounced the blessing on her. It hadn't worked—the blessing hadn't—but it had been a nice thought all the same. She would have liked to have been able to tell him that she was sorry.
Sober.
Why didn't he fight back when the overlords beat him before they sold him on the slave dock? Why didn't any of the villagers ever fight back? Maybe they were not as stupid and cowardly as she had thought. She pictured Sober as he was on the slave dock, forgiving her instead of hating her. That took strength. Sober wasn't powerful, but he was strong. She had never thought about that before. She had always thought that the overlords were strong because they were powerful and the lowborns were weak because they were powerless. But maybe it took more strength to live without power than with it.
The light from the suncloths melted into the morning light, which slipped through her window. Repentance gazed out at the sky wondering what her punishment would be. The king hadn't seemed too angry with her when he'd left. He'd been more angry—or worried—about the prince.
But he'd also been determined to stop being lax. He would make an example of her.
And he had said it was unthinkable that she could call him a warthog and live.
The music filled me with peace. Like a bucket overflowing with second chances, graciously being poured from the hand of Providence, melody washed over my soul.
~Lady Timminn, an essay
The Value of Music in the Education of Children
Chapter 17
Generosity burst through the door. "Good morning," she said cheerfully, settling the breakfast tray on the bed. "Did you sleep well?"
Repentance looked at the fruits and cakes on the tray. The thought of eating made her stomach cramp, but she reached for the cup of steaming tea.
Generosity studied the suncloths on Repentance's wall. "You didn't drop the night covers? Ach. I'm sorry. I was afraid to come last night. Provocation told me to keep away as the king was in here with you."
Repentance looked at the rolled up material above the suncloths. Oh. Night covers. She wouldn't have slept, anyway.
"But all is well this morning," the maid continued, happily. "You will break fast every day in your room, my Lady," Generosity said, shaking a napkin out and laying it on Repentance's lap. "Provocation instructed me to tell you."
Repentance looked at the girl, trying to focus on what she'd said. Break fast every day in her room? She wasn't going to swing?
"And you are to lunch in the kitchen with Provocation and Skoch," Generosity continued. "You are to be there at noon." She paused, frowning. "Are you ill, my Lady?"
"I didn't sleep well."
"I'd better tell Provocation. She said I was to teach you how to take down the suncloths and wash them." She stopped smiling then and gave Repentance a hard look. "I may be speaking as a fool, but I have to say it's an easier punishment than you deserve. What would possess you to call the king a warthog? And him being so good to all his servants."
"What's an easier punishment than I deserve?"
"Washing the suncloths on the whole fifth floor. You'll have to do them on your own, and it will take a year at least. I'm sorry about—In truth, you do not look well. I'd better tell Provocation."
"No! I'm fine. I want to work." Thank Providence! She was to remain in the palace. The boys were safe for the time being and there was still a chance that the king would save Comfort. She was going to do nothing to jeopardize that. She threw back her covers and climbed out of bed.
Generosity provided her with a work smock—one with a big pocket in the front, like the maids wore—and showed her how to take the suncloths from the walls without burning her fingers. A yak bladder filled with water and lavacl
oth gloves were the only tools needed. The cloths were frozen directly to the wall at the two top corners. One squirt from a pinhole in the bladder melted the ice tack for a split second—just long enough to pull the corner of the fabric away from the wall.
Hanging the cloths back up was done in the same manner. Squirt the corner of the suncloth and stick it up quickly where it would freeze-dry to the wall immediately. During the reattachment process the lavacloth gloves were of the most importance, Generosity explained. They kept fingers from being burned or frozen to the wall.
"When I arrived at the palace I saw maids hanging suncloths downstairs," Repentance said. "Do they get dirty fast? How often do they need to be washed?"
"Those maids weren't washing the cloths," Generosity said. "They were moving them from inner rooms to outer rooms."
"Why would they do that?"
"To enliven them," Generosity answered. "They draw their light from the sun, so they must be in the rooms with windows every three days. They are rotated on schedule."
So that's why she'd never seen suncloths at the healing house. There was no sun there to enliven them.
"None of the cloths up here on the fifth floor need rotation," Generosity continued. "They are all in rooms with windows."
Repentance looked out the windows on one side of the room in which they worked and saw that the fifth floor was made up of a ring of rooms. In the center of the ring was a courtyard, built on the fourth-floor roof, which was carpeted in lavacloth. And in that courtyard were settees, and stuffed chairs, and tables. There were also evergreen trees in big pots, and fanciful ice sculptures—dragons and goats and rabbits and squirrels, all scampering among the trees and furniture. Repentance had never seen anything so lovely.
Once she had the suncloths down in one room, Generosity took Repentance to the washroom in back of the kitchen downstairs. A vat that was as big as her washtub back home sat over a fire pit. Boiling water roiled inside the vat, pouring out steam.
Generosity taught her how to wash the cloth, using a paddle to stir it in the vat and then to flip it from the boiling water into a basket, which sat on the floor. From there she took it to the drying rack in the back of the washroom.
And then, with many apologies and much good will, Generosity left Repentance to wash the rest of the cloth herself.
She set to work with earnest, stirring her wash loads, heaving them from the water, and dragging them to the drying rack.
Hunched over the boiling water, she could almost imagine she was back home in the swamp. The windows were open but the work was still hot, and mist rose, engulfing her as she stirred with the long wooden paddle.
Backing away for a quick break in the middle of her fifth load, she wiped her damp brow with the hem of her work smock. She sighed and stretched her aching shoulder muscles. The work was hard. And she had a year of it stretching before her. But at least she got to smell the cool air, which came in from the windows. And she was alive. That was something. And she still might save Comfort.
Digging the paddle back into the vat, she began to wrestle the heavy panel of cloth from the water. Halfway through the process she heard a familiar voice.
"When I prayed for fog to hide you from your enemies, I'd no idea I'd get a literal answer."
Sober!
Balancing her loaded paddle on the edge of the vat, Repentance turned to look.
It was Sober.
"I almost didn't see you under all this mist," he said. "How fortunate that I was raised in Hot Springs and can see through fog as thick as swamp mud."
Her heart made a happy little bounce at that familiar phrase spoken in the Hot Springs accent. It made another bounce when she noticed the smile in his eyes.
"What are you doing?" he asked pointing to the vat behind her.
She turned back, following his gaze, and the load of heavy material fell off her paddle into the boiling water. "Rats!"
"Where?" Sober peered into the boiling water.
She bumped him with her shoulder. "It's hardly funny. That was a heavy load. Now I have to dig it out all over again."
He took the paddle from her and, with one quick flick, plunked the sopping load into her basket. Hot water streamed out of the loosely woven sides and ran toward the ice pit where it would cool and freeze and, eventually, be shaved off and carted away.
Repentance bent to retrieve the load.
"I'll get it." Sober scooped up the basket.
She felt a rush of affection for him. A face from home. He looked different than she remembered, though. What had changed? Same square chin. Same curly black hair. Same crooked nose.
"Lead on," he said.
She knew. His shoulders seemed broader. Or his waist narrower. Work on the farm suited him.
He smelled good, too. She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of soil and sunshine.
He cleared his throat. "You were right. This is heavy. Are you inclined to show me where to take it?"
Her cheeks flamed with heat. "Sorry. Right back here." She led him to the drying rack.
"This is amazing material," he said, dropping the basket. "And the mooncloth. Have you seen that?"
She nodded.
He grabbed the wet suncloth, but she pulled it from him.
"I have to do it myself."
"Why are you doing this at all, let alone by yourself? I assumed the prince would ... I assumed you'd have other duties."
"The prince is not my master." She smiled, happy to share her trickle of good fortune with him.
Sober stared. "Well," he said after a moment, "it does seem as if Providence is answering my prayers. But if the prince is not your master, what are you doing at the palace?"
"I came yesterday from the healing house at Hot Springs." Yesterday? It felt like she'd aged ten years in her first night.
"I've looked for you here these two months. I often imagined you were up in one of the palace windows looking down. And all that time you were in Hot Springs?"
"What do you mean you've been looking for me for two months?" she asked. "You can't live at the palace. That farming woman bought you."
"I come twice every week to deliver potatoes. And on Fridays I bring greens, as well, for the yaks." He motioned to the frozen courtyard outside the windows. "You can't grow vegetables here on the mountain."
"Sober!" An old voice called out. "What are you doing, boy?"
Repentance looked over her shoulder. Calamity, the old slave from the slave market, stood at the kitchen doorway.
"Will you be at lunch on Friday?" Sober asked. "Cook feeds us on Fridays, because it's our long day here, what with delivering the yak feed and all."
"Come you along, young man," Calamity said, "My whiskers sprout as you loiter."
"See you Friday?" Sober asked, walking backwards toward the kitchen as he looked at her.
She nodded and grinned at him.
He winked and turned to join Calamity. "I'm coming, old man, tell your whiskers to cease and desist."
A few minutes later, as she stood watching out the window by the drying rack, a skim wagon loaded with produce emerged from the front of the palace, and headed down the drive. Sober looked back from the driver's seat and waved.
As Repentance lifted her hand, the prince rounded the corner of the palace and looked back as if to see who Sober was waving at.
Repentance ducked behind the hanging suncloths.
At noon she entered the kitchen for lunch to find only Provocation and a young, overlord tutor by the name of Skoch at the large wood table. Generosity wasn't present—the maids and the groundsmen ate last, Provocation explained.
The smile Repentance had worn since Sober left, disappeared. He would eat with the groundsmen, no doubt, when he came on Friday. So be it. If he was on the grounds, she would find a way to visit with him.
A few minutes into her meal with the housekeeper and the tutor, she was missing Generosity's chatter. Provocation was too busy eating to speak more than a few words, it seeme
d, and Skoch didn't speak at all—just nodded when Provocation introduced him.
Still, Repentance sipped her onion and potato soup slowly. She was in no hurry to go back upstairs and get more cloth to take to the washroom. There were a hundred and fourteen rooms on the fifth floor, but she had the rest of her life to get them done.
And Sober would come again on Friday.
There was that.
She sighed, content to be alive.
"I hope that sigh doesn't mean you're too weary to p-p-pay attention to my lectures this afternoon, my Lady," the tutor said.
Repentance eyed him skeptically. His yellow hair stood in short spikes all over his head, reminding her of a porcupine. And why was he eating lunch with two slaves?
"Lectures?" This was the first she'd heard about any lectures.
"History and de-p-p-portment," he answered.
She shook her head, stupefied. Who would pay a stuttering man to give lectures?
"You're to sit in classes with the young p-p-princes. Did no one tell you?"
"You're telling her just fine," Provocation said. "No need to tell people things before they have need of knowing."
"I'm to go to school with little boys? I've already finished my schooling." And she didn't have any desire to go to school with the young princes. That would increase the likelihood that she would bump into their father, and she was not anxious for contact with the handsome, cruel Lord Malficc.
The tutor dropped his eyes, his cheeks a shade pinker than a moment before. "It seems the king thought your g-g-grasp of history was not all it should be."
Heat rose in her cheeks. Was there anyone who hadn't heard? But it made sense that the king would tell everyone that she thought he was half way through his third century. If she looked like a foolish child, others would think him kind, rather than weak, when he spared her from the swingman. He was a smart man, her king.
"And as for the deportment classes, if the king had not suggested them," Provocation said, "I certainly would have. You'd best learn manners, before the whole palace is in an uproar. The Moonlight Festival is next month, too, and you're not fit to be seen at the King's side."
The Button Girl Page 13
