"They—they said the Blood Lord would always own me—"
Farin sighed. "They say...and they have powers, no doubt of it, but...I was Lady-blessed at the well near my parents' home, on my name-day. She's no warrior, the Lady isn't, but she's strong and she takes us all when we die. Body to body, she wraps us 'round, and—" A noise from the kitchen stopped her. "Stay here," she said. "Behind the door." Quickly, she reached the measure that hung from the back of the door, and scooped out a measure of beans from the barrel on that side of the pantry.
"Cook! Where are you?" Lady Verrakai.
Farin opened the pantry door. "Here, milady."
"What were you doing in there?"
"Fetching out beans to test, milady." Farin held out the measure. "I test them every three tendays, to be sure none are softening or sprouting. Milady will remember a hand of years ago, when a barrel went bad—"
Lady Verrakai looked hard at her, but Farin held her own expression steady. "I do remember," she said. "And do you dig down into the barrel, or take them from the top?"
"When it's full, milady, I dig down; when it's more empty, from the top."
"And you have not tested these yet?"
"No, milady."
"Show me."
Farin reached down a bowl, poured water into it, and then poured in half the measure of beans. Most sank at once, a few floated. She pushed them down; two rose up again.
"Are they rotten?" Lady Verrakai asked.
"No, milady, but they may have a hole where a weevil was."
"What do you with the rest of that measure?"
"Test each bean for hardness, milady," Farin said. She took the big cleaver and cut one bean neatly in two. "See, milady, the inside shows if it's dry or soft, and if there's a growing bit. This one is a good one."
"And you throw these beans away?"
"No, milady. That would be waste. The ones I cut will be pounded to bean flour, to thicken soups; the bean flour we keep in a jar, in the same pantry. The ones being soaked will be mashed when they're soft, cooked, then mixed with herbs and lard into a paste for roasting meats."
"Very well." Lady Verrakai said nothing more, and went away.
Farin assumed she was still in hearing. "Jaim, bring the pestle over and the mortar; you will pound the beans as I cut them."
Another five days passed, four hands of days since they'd left and the men did not return. The stable workers and the few militia left at the house looked tense every time Farin went outside for something. The next morning, when coming back to the house from the servants' jacks, Farin saw a group coming in the stable yard gate: four militia men herding some peasants roped together, neck to neck to neck. Nausea gripped her. She hurried across the cobbled yard to the kitchen door, looking away from them. She knew what would happen; they would be taken to the tower...and did that mean one of the red priests had come?
What would happen would happen, and nothing a cook could do about it. She could not even protect her own. Efla, later that day, saw someone in Verrakai livery ride in on a lathered horse. Whoever it was did not come through the kitchen, but Lady Verrakai and the other Verrakai women did, striding through without meeting anyone's gaze as Farin and the others flattened themselves against the walls.
"To the dungeons," Farin said quietly to her staff, after she was sure the mageladies had gone far enough. Whatever news had been brought was bad...something had happened to those who had ridden away...but what? She scolded Efla and Jaim and Kolin, pushing them to work harder, faster. Whatever it was, bad news for the lords and ladies meant worse news for the servants.
The ladies were back before the evening meal, and this time Lady Verrakai paused in the kitchen, looking around at the work being done. Her slow cruel smile stopped Farin's hands stirring a sauce, and then her magery stopped them all, until taking a breath was like hauling on a stone.
"That girl," Lady Verrakai said, "does not have her mark, I think?"
Farin could not move, could not speak.
"You do. I remember well how you squealed when it was given. But the girl—the lad was in haste to teach her her faults, and did not take the time then. It is often so, as it was with you. She must be marked." Lady Verrakai went to Efla, stiff as the rest with fear and magery, and stroked her cheek. "Yes, dear, you must have your mark, so all know you belong to Verrakai and to the Bloodlord." Then she stepped back, and looked again at Farin. "After we eat, I think. You will have dinner ready on time." Then she turned and walked to the door, leaving them all caught fast in her magery, unable to move. She glanced back. "Oh...perhaps you do need to move." Farin felt the pressure ease. "But none of you will leave this room until the girl has been marked."
She was gone, and Farin knew the doors were blocked with magery. She said nothing but what a cook should say, urging the others to finish the preparation for dinner, and when it was done, Lady Verrakai stood again in the doorway with the servants who would carry in the food. She had no need to say anything; Farin knew the door was unblocked only to allow the servants entrance, to pick up the food and carry it out...and then they were closed in once more.
Efla's eyes were red; tears overflowed.
"No," Farin said. "Not now."
"They're going to hurt me again!"
"It's only for the mark," Farin said, trying not to remember the pain of that, the hot needle, the burning stuff pushed into her skin, how long the mark burned and then itched as it healed. "Don't cry, Efla. They'll take longer if you cry; they like that. Think of your future; think of your parrion. The kitchen you will have someday and how much more you will know—no pain lasts forever."
"I don't care!" Efla's sobs shook her voice. "I-I'll never—I can't—I'm scared—"
Jaim and Kolin were trembling now, whimpering. It was too much; if Efla screamed, they would all be punished and Efla most likely would die in the cells after many days of torment. Farin cuffed Jaim on the way to Efla, grabbed her shoulders, shook her into silence. She leaned close. "Stop your sniveling, or I will hurt you myself. You will get us all taken to the cells. You will be silent until milady comes, and you will go with her like the obedient servant you are, and you will endure whatever there is to endure. Do. You. Understand?"
Efla stared back at her, eyes swimming with tears. She blinked, then nodded. "Y-y-yes, Cook."
Farin let go her shoulders; the girl did not fall, though she put a hand on the work table to steady herself. Farin looked around at the others. "All of you: this kitchen must be clean before milady returns from dinner. I will wash the bowls—" She did not trust their shaking hands with breakable things. "Kolin and Efla, you will clean the table. Jaim, you clean the floor."
When Lady Verrakai and the others reappeared, the kitchen was clean, the pots and utensils polished, the fire banked for the night, and dough for the morrow's bread safely in the warming oven. The women looked around, ran hands over the table top, called their magelight to look at the floor...but all was in order.
"You will remain here until we return," Lady Verrakai said. "And you will stand where you are."
Once more the mage power held Farin, Jaim, and Kolin, each standing in place, while the mageladies went to Efla, took hold of her, and forced her away, out the kitchen entrance. Whether they silenced her, or Efla had managed to hold her own tongue, Farin could not tell, but the girl made no sound.
Time passed. Farin's legs grew tired; her feet burned. She could not sit; she could not even fall down. Magery held her in place, but not as something to lean against, to be helpful while forced to stand. Instead every pebble of her weight pressed onto her feet, and her feet onto the floor, and she thought she could feel every vein of the stone in the floor.
Finally the women returned, with Efla, senseless, over the shoulder of a groom. At Lady Verrakai's orders, he laid her on the floor, then left. She smiled at them all. "You may return to work now. It is but two glasses until time for breakfast, so I expect breakfast on time."
The magery melted away, as t
he ladies left the kitchen. Farin staggered, her legs stiff and her feet cramping, on her way to Efla. "Take buckets, use the jacks, fetch water," she said to them as she knelt beside Efla. "Be quick about it; we've scarcely time."
Efla was alive. Farin folded back the shoulder of her dress...there, the horned chain on her shoulder. But it would not only there, not with the time they'd taken. She could not undress the girl; she could not even put her to bed. She squeezed her eyes shut against the tears she dared not shed, blinked hard, and then shook Efla's other shoulder as gently as she could.
"Efla. Wake up. It's over. We need you."
Efla groaned; her eyelids fluttered open and she jerked her head.
"Quiet," Farin said. "It's Farin. You're in the kitchen. The ladies want their breakfast on time. Get up now."
Efla shook her head, biting her lip.
"Now!" Farin said, hardening her voice. She yanked on Efla's arm; the girl cried out, but not loudly, and Farin finally got her upright. Jaim came in with a bucket of water. "Wash your face," Farin said. "And Jaim, fetch two clean aprons."
Kolin came in with her bucket. Farin splashed some water on her own face, and poked up the fire in the ovens. The dough had risen properly overnight; she thumped it down on the table, pounded it a little, and then looked at Efla. Clean-faced now...a clean apron replacing the rumpled mess she'd worn...no time to have her change her dress anyway.
"Kolin, bring that jar of mixed dried fruits; we'll put some in the morning rolls. Efla, you'll chop the fruit. Evenly, no pieces bigger than your little fingernail."
The usual morning rhythm soothed Farin—check the ovens' heat, cut and shape the dough, tell this one to slice the breakfast meats, that one to fetch the eggs, another to stir the porridge...she did that herself, this morning, between starting the eggs, keeping an eye on Efla, who chopped slowly, but steadily, the little pile of red and purple and orange fruit-bits slowly filling the bowl Farin had given her. Farin took it, sprinkled the roll-dough with the dried fruit, drizzled some honey, sprinkled figan and zettz, then rolled each up and set them on a griddle, and the griddle in the oven.
Efla, without being told, replaced the rest of the fruit in the right jar, took the jar to the pantry, wiped the knife clean. When she came back to the work table, Farin nodded to the pan full of stirred eggs, still half-liquid. "Keep those on the move," she said. Efla nodded without speaking. Maybe, just maybe, she was doing what Farin had told her, putting all of herself into her parrion. It had saved Farin; maybe it would save Efla.
* * * *
A few days later, days of tension that had everyone in the household on edge, Farin heard shouts from the front of the house shortly after breakfast was done, and then a rush of scurrying feet. One of the other mageladies stopped in the kitchen door. "Stay here!" she said, and made a sign in the air. Then she turned away. Farin found make-work for her staff, for herself. Whatever happened, someone would want food, so something would have to be sliced or chopped, ground or sifted, stirred or kneaded. An extra batch of bread never came amiss. She caught glimpses of servants rushing back and forth in the passage, heard voices—some loud and angry, some merely mumbles and grumbles in the distance. Then silence, a silence heavy with magery.
The feel of magery moving...doing somewhat...made Farin's skin crawl. Blocking the door, that was a small thing; this...this was more than one of the mages, and another mage—one or many?—opposing them. She heard no voices, just felt the magery, invisible but heavy, sliding past her on this side and that. Like the silent popping of a bubble, the spell that blocked the kitchen door broke and vanished.
Then came shuffle of many feet entering the great hall. And a man's voice she had never heard, declaring something she did not understand, except for the last bit—the command for all to come forth. Farin looked around the room, gathering her people.
"Should we clear everything first?" Jaim asked.
"No," Farin said. "Best not." The work table, with its heap of redroots and bowl of red-root slices, the mound of dough she'd been kneading, that could wait. No other house servants would have to come through the kitchen to reach the front hall; the knives and tongs and open pantry doors would be safe enough. She led them out into passage, around the turns, to the great hall, into the mass of servants at that end. At the other, she saw with astonishment, the mageladies stood surrounded by armed men in uniform, uniforms she did not recognize.
And with them, a tall woman, clearly a Verrakai by her face and coloring, though sun-marked darker than the others. She wore men's clothes—a soldier's clothes—with steel throat-guard at her neck, mail, leg-guards on her legs. The sword at her side was no jeweled plaything. Her expression promised, as all Verrakaien did, punishment for disobedience. Her gaze moved from one side of the servants to the other; as it passed over her, Farin felt the power. This too was a mage.
"I am your new Duke, by order of the crown prince and Council," she said. Her voice was firm, a voice used to command. "From now on, all orders come from me. Is that clear?"
Others murmured; Farin's voice locked in her throat though her lips moved. What horrors would come from such a woman? A woman duke? How could a woman be a duke?
"If you obey me, no harm will come to you. If you do not, I will consider you conspirators in the treason which brought Attaint to all in the family and you will be transported to Vérella to stand trial. What say you?"
Farin puzzled over the unfamiliar words. Conspirators? Treason? Attaint? What did that mean? But "if you obey" and "what say you?" were clear enough, and she had just opened her mouth when the steward pushed through the servants and confronted the woman. Farin hoped the woman would stick her sword into him, but instead she answered his challenge with an explanation Farin could almost understand.
Duke Haron was dead; he had done something bad—the woman did not say what—and been killed. Farin wished she'd said what the Duke had done and who killed him. Every member of the family was under attainder—whatever that meant—and the mageladies had tried to attack this woman—and failed. She was the new Duke, strange as that seemed, and a mage with the power to control Lady Verrakai. Lady Verrakai and the other mageladies were prisoners now, and would be taken away. A flicker of hope rose in Farin's heart, but she pushed it down. One mage might fight another, but that did not mean the winner would spare the loser's servants.
The steward, Farin knew, lied when he said he acknowledged the woman as Duke. Did the woman realize it? Apparently; she called him and the footman called Coben toward her. Farin felt the pressure of magery in the hall, making it hard to hear and harder to understand everything said between the new Duke and the two men. She watched, and seeing them from behind saw the flick of fingers the new Duke could not see, from the steward standing slightly in front of the footman. Sure enough, once bound they lurched toward the new Duke...and her escort ran them through.
Even as they fell—before Farin could do more than grab Efla's arm to keep her still—she heard noise from outside and three men ran through the crowd of servants, pushing them aside, waving knives and pokers. Knives...where had they found knives like that? The long one, with a little curve...but in the chaos, Farin couldn't think. The other servants squealed, pushing and shoving to get away from the attackers; Farin stayed where she was, watching the new Duke. She held Efla and Jaim in place even as others ran into her, recoiled, ran the other way. Kolin, pushed hard, fell to her knees, then staggered up, pulling on Farin's apron for balance.
The new Duke stood still, watching them all, as the three attackers fell to soldiers' blades, then glanced at the mageladies. Farin followed her gaze; the mageladies were grinning. She guessed they must have had something to do with whatever had happened, but even as she watched their faces went blank and their shoulders slumped. The new Duke, tall and proud, had mastered them again. Now the Duke was walking around the fallen bodies, and now she came toward the servants.
Others fell to their knees; Farin lowered herself as well, still holding
to Efla and Jaim. No one spoke until the new Duke did. She asked first for nurserymaids, and the six of them shuffled forward on their knees. She dismissed them to care for the children, sending guards with them. And then she asked for kitchen staff.
Farin's knees hurt. If she was going to be sent back to the kitchen, she might as well get up now. She clambered up, dragging Efla and Jaim up with her, and curtsied to the new Duke. Then glancing down respectfully, she saw the knife in one dead man's hand. And the pokers. Her knife. Her pokers. He had been in her kitchen with his dirty mucky boots, and he'd stolen her knife to attack the Duke...!
Rage swamped the last of her fear and the words burst out of her: "He's tooken my best carving knife, that wicked Votik, and him no more than a kennelman!" She hardly knew what more she said, until she ran out of breath, and saw the Duke looking at her with the merest crimp of the mouth that might mean she was laughing inside. Farin stood, breathing hard, wondering if she was about to die, being loud to a Verrakai mage.
But the Duke just nodded. "You should go back to the kitchen with your helpers, and fix a meal for the young children. Someone will bring in the kitchen tools when we're finished here."
Farin knew dismissal when she heard it; she ducked her head, and stomped off, muttering warnings to Efla, Kolin and Jaim on the way. "An' if we ever see that knife again I'll be surprised, indeed I will."
As she'd expected, the kennelman and the grooms had left filthy footprints on the floor. She sent Jaim for more water. It was not long before one of the soldiers brought the pokers and knife to the kitchen, setting the pokers by the fireplace and the knife on the work table. He said nothing, but nodded at Farin; she nodded back. The new Duke did not appear in the kitchen until much later, after dark, when she came in from the stable-yard and asked Farin's name.
"Farintod, m'lord," Farin said. "I'm called Farin, or just Cook."
The new Duke nodded, and went on through, not asking for food or giving orders. Farin finally shrugged, and sent the others to bed up in the servants' garret. She put the new dough in the warming oven, and crawled under the work table to sleep.
Deeds of Honor Page 5
