by Sharon Lee
He stared at her, the cruel mouth thin with distaste. Serana returned his regard, mildly, until at last, he turned away and spoke to Don Eyr.
“A bodyguard?”
Don Eyr bowed.
“All high-ranking Lutetian persons employ a bodyguard.”
“I was told you were a baker.”
Don Eyr said nothing.
“I repeat that I will not feed it,” Arba said after a moment.
“You need not feed me, sir,” said Serana. “I account my expenses, and my lord pays them. It is in the contract. Perhaps sir would like to see it?”
Arba drew a hard breath, but did not turn his head. Once more, he addressed Don Eyr. “You will instruct it not to speak to me.”
Don Eyr bowed, briefly, and Serana thought she saw the flicker of a knife in that gesture.
“Serana,” he said, turning to face her, and speaking in the mode known as Comrade. “You are relieved of the burden of his lordship’s conversation. Please do not speak to him directly, as it agitates his melant’i.”
He turned back to Arba, and met his eyes.
“His lordship will naturally refrain from addressing you,” he continued, “as I am certain that doing so must also distress him extremely.”
Arba’s eyes were cold, his beringed fingers were tight on the arm of his chair. He inclined his head gracefully, however.
“We come now to the matter of your domestic arrangements. As you are my servant, a room has been set aside for you in the servant’s wing.”
He paused, perhaps to savor an anticipated protest, as this was, Serana saw, yet another insult.
Don Eyr inclined his head slightly, face attentive.
“You will take your meals with the servants,” Arba continued after a moment, his cruel mouth tight.
“As I am your servant,” Don Eyr murmured. “Exactly so.”
That was perhaps an error, to have shown so much spirit. Arba’s eyes gleamed, and he gave a curt nod.
“You are dismissed. I will be going out this evening you will wait upon me. I will summon you when I am ready to leave.”
With that, he turned his back on them, pretending to busy himself at his screen.
Don Eyr bowed, turned and let them out, closing the door very quietly behind them.
“Now the question becomes,” he said softly in Lutetian, “which is more amusing, to have us caught as thieves in his house, or showing all the world his new possession?”
“Surely,” Serana answered, “he will go for the long game, that man.”
“Indeed. Now—ah.”
He stepped quickly to a small side hall, and looked inside. The woman who had let them in stood there, impassive, but clearly interested.
“Good day to you,” Don Eyr said easily in the mode between comrades. “I am new in his lordship’s employ. He has graciously granted me and my household a room in the servant’s wing. Will you teach me how to arrive there?”
The butler stirred slightly, and Serana saw her weighing which course would anger her master more—to aid the newcomer or to allow him to wander the house. Commonsense decided the day, or a realization of proper duty. In any case, she offered a small nod.
“I will show you,” she said.
• • • • • •
It was a small room, though not nearly as rude as he had prepared himself to entertain. It was not, however, kind to Serana’s proportions.
“Well,” she said, good-naturedly, “at least here I may lose myself entirely in passion.”
He considered her.
“How so?”
“Why, I will not have to constantly be aware of the eaves, and their proximity to my head. Only think how we may soar, now that my attention will not be divided.”
“Of course,” he said, politely. “But, consider, Serana, the size of this room, not only of the bed. It is not a hovel, but I would not see you here. We shall ask Mr. dea’Bon to find you a more fitting apartment . . .”
“If this place fits you, it fits me,” Serana interrupted him. She leaned forward and touched his cheek. “Little one, accept that I will not leave you alone in that man’s hand. He does not want a servant; he wants a whipping boy. It will please him to taunt you. Already he insults your birth.”
“No,” said Don Eyr; “he is nothing more than factual. I was not born from a proper contract, nor was I caught at Festival. I am the product of an affair of pleasure, whom my mother decided to regularize.”
“In fact, you were born of love,” said Serana.
He smiled.
“In fact, you are a woman of Lutetia,” he answered her. “And, indeed—it is Arba’s error, that he attempts to diminish my melant’i. As the plays teach us—we each know the value of our own melant’i.”
He took a breath.
“I am not, however, certain of my answer, the next time he insults you.”
“But he will not insult me again! I have been instructed not to speak to him, and he has been instructed not to speak to me.”
“He takes my instruction exactly so much as you do,” he said, sounding bitter in his own ears. “Serana, this . . . this gallimaufry is nothing of yours. I would not see you waste your life. You are made for—for bold ventures, and fair. This is . . . drab and dreary, and—wholly unworthy of you.”
She smiled at him, and he knew he would not win this argument. Oh, he could send her away. All he needed do was tell her that he did not want her and she would remove herself immediately. The words settled on the edge of his tongue. He would tell her—Serana, I do not want you. She would leave him to pursue her own life, free of this stupid circumstance he had brought her to . . .
And, yet . . . he could not bring the lie to his lips.
“Come,” she said cheerfully, “let us find the kitchen, and see what arrangements might be made.”
“Arrangements?” he asked, his heart aching.
“Indeed. You have not had your luncheon, and if that man is feeding you, he can begin now.”
• • • • • •
The kitchen they found easily enough by following their noses. Don Eyr paused on the threshold, Serana at his back, and surveyed the area, pleased to find it clean and well-appointed, with proper stations, staffed appropriately.
He felt some of the tension leave him, soothed by this display of orderly busyness.
“May I help you . . . sir?”
The grizzled over-chef was approaching, wiping his hands on a towel, looking from him to Serana. Plainly, he had not been told about the new servant and his bodyguard, Don Eyr thought. And, plainly, it suited the master’s whim to make the assimilation of the new servant into his household as difficult as possible.
“I am Don Eyr fer’Gasta,” he said, bowing to the chef’s honor; “newly arrived to serve Delm Arba. This is my companion, Serana Benoit. One was told that the house would feed me, and I have come to speak with you regarding the necessities of the kitchen, so that I do not impede your work.”
The over-chef was . . . puzzled, but gracious.
“I had not been informed of your arrival,” he said. “The house is sometimes not so forthcoming with the kitchen as one would wish. We are preparing Prime, but surely there is food at the staff table. I will show you. My name is Mae Nir vas’Urbil.”
“It was Arba’s word,” Serana said as they crossed the busy kitchen toward a window at the back, “that he will not feed me, as I am not employed by the house, but am here on Don Eyr’s account.”
Chef vas’Urbil frowned.
“I recall now,” he said, looking closely at Don Eyr’s face. “You’re the lad Serat lost at cards.”
Don Eyr bowed gently, not slackening his pace.
“Here. We keep this area stocked for staff; you may eat at any hour that duty does not claim you.” He glanced at Serana. “Both of you. Arba has not given me any instructions regarding new servants in the house, and this kitchen can feed two more as easily as one.”
“You are kind,” Don Eyr murm
ured.
Chef vas’Urbil moved a hand.
“I am efficient, and I keep within budget. That is what Arba cares about. Now—”
A lamentation rose from a far corner of the kitchen.
“The bread!” cried a voice. “Ah, the bread!”
Don Eyr was moving before he recalled that this was not his kitchen to oversee, and by then, he had arrived at the ovens, and the lamenting under-baker there.
“What is the difficulty?” asked the chef, who had arrived at Don Eyr’s shoulder.
“The bread, sir; it did not rise. And there is no time to begin again. I—”
“When is Prime?” asked Don Eyr.
“In two hours,” said Chef vas’Urbil.
“May I assist?” Don Eyr asked. “I do not wish to disorder your kitchen. This, however, is my work; I am trained in bread.”
“Who trained you?”
“I have graduated from École de Cuisine at Lutetia.”
Chef vas’Urbil blinked.
Then, he waved a hand.
“If you know what to do, Baker, by all means, do it. I have a kitchen to oversee.”
“Yes,” said Don Eyr and turned to the weeping under-baker, feeling very much in his element, even to the point of calming an overwrought student.
“What we shall do is make petit pain,” he told her. She stared at him.
“Sir?”
“Small breads,” he said briskly. “They rise once, and bake quickly. We have time enough; and they will arrive pleasingly hot at the table.”
“I do not—”
“I will demonstrate,” he told her moving around the station, and plucking an apron from a hook.
“What is your name?”
“Zelli, sir.”
“Well, Zelli, my name is Don Eyr. I have done this many times before, and can assure you that we are in no danger of failing. Is the mixer clean and ready?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now attend me . . .”
• • • • • •
Serana started up from the chair where she had been reading.
“Tell me he did not do this.”
Don Eyr sat on the edge of the bed. His face hurt, and his pride, though he had not been struck in public. He was not accustomed to being struck. Worse, it had taken every ounce of his will, not to strike back.
“Of course, he did it,” he said now to Serana. “It is his right, is it not? The Code and the plays teach us that a delm may do what the delm pleases to all members of the clan, including taking their lives. My delm gave me into Arba’s care.”
“He will not live to strike you again,” Serana said calmly.
He looked up sharply.
“Go,” he said, his voice harsh. “Leave me now.”
Shock etched her face.
“Don Eyr—”
He held up a hand.
“I will not be the instrument of your ruin! I will not see you tarnish yourself. I will not—”
His voice broke, and to his own horror, he began to cry.
Serana turned abruptly, and left the room, the door closing behind her.
Don Eyr gasped.
“Good,” he said raggedly, and bent over until his forehead rested on his knees. He tried to regulate his breathing, to master the tears, to—
Serana was gone. He was alone. It was well; he ought to send to Mr. dea’Bon, to be certain that she had passage wherever she wished to go. The house on Ezhel’ti was hers, he would make it so, if she wished to establish herself there, or to—
The door cycled. Gentle hands were on his shoulders.
“Sit up, petit; allow me to examine this bruise. Here. Here is ice, and I have also some salve which is recommended to me by the night cook. A tray will be brought, wine, cheese, and fruits. We shall make a merry feast, eh?”
He jerked under the soft pressure of her fingers.
“He did not withhold himself, I see. First, the ice, then the salve . . .”
The cold stung, then numbed.
“Serana—you must go.”
“Indeed, little one; I must not. You have the right of it; to kill this man would not be at all clever. I give you my word that I will not kill him. May I remain?”
He reached out, half-blind with weeping, and touched her lips.
“I am weak. Yes, Serana. Please stay.”
• • • • • •
For the first relumma of service, Arba was content to take Don Eyr on his evening rounds of pleasure, explaining to everyone he met who his servant was and how he had come into Arba’s service. This generated much gossip, which Arba was certain would discommode his new toy, especially the betting pool regarding the exact day and time when Serat crumbled under the weight of its own debts and was written out of the Book of Clans, and the rumors regarding Don Eyr’s mother.
After that sport had worn thin, Don Eyr was given various menial tasks that took him to the borders of Low and Mid-Port, Arba having ownership of many of the most disreputable houses on that border. He was always glad to have Serana with him, but especially so on these errands, where he felt her long, competent presence was everything that prevented him being robbed.
There were periods when he was “on-call”—constrained to remain in the house and await the master’s word. These might have lain heavier on him had there not been the kitchen, and the beginning of a friendship between himself and Mae Nir vas’Urbil. He was welcome in the kitchen at any time, to teach, or to create whatever pleased him. Those creations went to the staff room, and thus he won the goodwill, if not the friendship, of his fellow servants.
On the occasions when they both had an hour free, Don Eyr and Mae Nir would sit at study, the over-chef having produced a book of recipes from the Lutetia École de Cuisine, translated into Liaden from Lutetian. Serana gathered that the translation was inadequate to the utmost, and Don Eyr spent much time explaining—and occasionally demonstrating—certain techniques which had not translated at all.
For her part, Serana taught those of the staff who wished to learn disengages, and feints. It seemed Arba’s guests were not always of impeccable melant’i, and sometimes went so far as to touch that which was not theirs. It would not do to provide lasting harm to Arba’s guests, so Serana told her students; however, no one could possibly object to receiving a small lesson.
In this manner, two relumma passed, and Arba had not yet, in their sight, done one bit of violence to the Code.
On the morning of the first day of his third relumma of service, Arba called Don Eyr to his office.
“I have acquired a piece of land in Low Port, at the corner of Offal Court and Pudding Lane. Before it can be put to use, it needs to be cleared of debris. See to it.”
FOUR
Low Port
The enforcers were coming. That was the word on the street.
Arba’s enforcers.
He had put the most able on the outer walls, the least able inside walls. There was a risk there, that those inside would be easy meat, once he had fallen. He had thought to send them away. If there had been any place safer than this place that he had made, he would have sent them away.
But, this was Low Port. There was no safety in Low Port, save being stronger than everyone else.
There were bolt holes from the inner room—tunnels too small for an adult to use. They would be able to get away, when—if—away. Out into Low Port, where they would be prey.
And he would be forsworn.
“Here they come,” he heard someone say as feet hurried past his huddling place.
Jax Ton peered carefully around the edge of the wall, his cheek rubbing the gritty old stone.
Yes, here they were, just coming ’round the corner. Not Low Porters, you could tell by the clothes, and by the walk. Up Porters, they walked firm, like they could take anything on the street. A lot of them, they didn’t look, and that got them in trouble. These two, though . . .
These two walked alert, and he’d seen them, he realized. Both o
f them, together, just like now. A dark-haired man, walking light and watchful; at his back a giantess, with cropped red hair, who walked even lighter, her eyes sweeping the street like beacons.
They were coming this way. Of course, they were coming this way.
Jax Ton made sure of his grip, and said, in a piercing whisper.
“Now.”
• • • • • •
Low Port was where the clanless, the criminal, and the mad collected. There was no place for them in Mid-Port, and certainly not in High Port. Rats strolled the broken streets at their leisure; buildings sagged, and occasionally fell down, from lack of care. The people were hungry, and shabby, and, most of them, hopeless. There were predators on every street, and a man might be murdered for a good pair of boots.
That had been Don Eyr’s judgment of Low Port from his previous visits on Arba’s behalf. He realized now that he had not seen the worst of it.
Pudding Lane was lined with basic shelters, from ragged tents and sagging inflatables, to huts built from scavenged bits of plastic, stone, and cardboard.
In fact, there was one building on the entire street—a stone pile that would likely survive a meteor strike.
Arba’s property.
“Are we to bulldoze the walls,” he asked Serana, “or merely pick up the trash?”
In fact, there was remarkably little trash around the walls, unlike the rest of the street. There were also remarkably few pedestrians, though Don Eyr could feel the pressure of eyes watching from those tattered shelters. No one challenged them, which happened often on the . . . better streets of Low Port, a circumstance that made his nerves tingle.
“Softly, little one,” said Serana. “There is a door. Let us approach from either side, so that we do not tempt anyone into an indiscretion.”
“Yes,” he said and swung to the right, as Serana went to the left—
Directly into a hail of stones, and sticks.
He hit the ground, rolling on a shoulder, and rising to one knee, arms over his head to protect it.
Serana . . .
Serana had continued forward as if the missiles were made of whipped cream. She went down on her knees some distance from the doorway, and held her hands up, palms showing.