“I said I got it.” Hailen shot him a frown. “I’ve been practicing disguises with the Hunter and Kiara.”
Try as he might, Evren couldn’t get the worry out of his mind. Hailen’s innocent, trusting nature made it hard for him to tell a convincing lie. Let’s just hope the lady of the house doesn’t bother asking her servants questions. At that moment, they arrived in the kitchens, and all worries about Hailen faded as Evren found himself face to face with his new superior. Samall was a stout man with a too-neat beard and thinning hair that he wore cropped close and oiled back with a thick layer of grease. He barely reached Evren’s shoulders yet affected the stern manner and commanding voice of a harridan. Cavad barely repeated Nessa’s words before he grabbed Hailen and fled.
“So you’re to be an attendant, eh?” Samall looked Evren up and down. “You’ve the build for it, so there’s that. What do you know about serving the Dhukari?”
“I—”
“Nothing, that’s what!” Samall cut him off with a chopping motion. “Being one of Arch-Guardian Suroth’s staff is an honor that you have to earn. Forget everything you learned in whatever piss-hole you came from. I’m going to teach you the right way to serve a member of the Keeper’s Council properly.” He stepped closer—close enough that Evren could see every neatly-shaven hair on his face and smell the stink coming off three rotting teeth in the back of the man’s mouth—and spoke in a low growl. “Maybe, if the Keeper’s blessed you with better brains than your looks, there’s a chance you won’t totally cock this up.” His face twisted into a sneer. “But I’m not holding out hope.”
Keeper’s teeth. Evren’s heart sank. What the bloody hell did I get myself into?
* * *
The afternoon went far worse than Evren expected. Over his years as an apprentice in the Master’s Temple, he’d picked up skills that would have served him well in any other household, even the noble houses of Voramis. But nothing he did was right to Samall.
When he’d helped shifting furniture in the upstairs sun room, Samall had growled at him for lifting wrong. The curses had turned into a tirade when he set Evren to dusting the bookshelves in the hallway outside Arch-Guardian Suroth’s office, then a full-blown dressing-down when Evren failed to place the delicate ceramic dinnerware in precisely the right place on their shelf in the kitchens. Somehow, he even found offense with the way Evren emptied the chamber pots—though that could have something to do with the fact that Evren purposely splashed night waste on his sandaled feet.
Finally, he banished Evren to the shadows of the kitchens and set him to scrubbing pots. That suited Evren just fine; he’d spent hours laboring under the watchful eye of Lectern Ordari as they prepared for the bi-monthly feasts in the Master’s Temple. He could scrub a pot with the best of them, but he could turn a ten-minute task into a three-hour job when it suited him. Right now, if it kept him away from Samall, he’d take hours to wash the burned bottoms of the soup tureens.
From within the darkness in the rear of the kitchens, he watched the cooks and servant women moving around. He paid close attention to their chatter. Killian had asked for information, so he needed to gather something that could prove of use to the blacksmith. Servant’s gossip often proved very enlightening.
“Did you hear?” muttered one cook to another. “It really is the Lady Briana returned!”
“Where d’you think she went?” a maidservant responded. “Do you believe it’s true that she was abducted by the Necroseti?”
“Don’t know.” The cook shrugged. “But I heard it was the Gatherers that took her.”
That could be something of interest.
Evren had no idea who the Necroseti or Gatherers were, but the fact that one of them had evidently abducted the Arch-Guardian’s daughter could prove of interest to Killian. He listened as closely as he could while maintaining the outward appearance of being absorbed in his task.
“Whoever it was, you know that’s why Eldesse and Osirath disappeared when they did.”
“Disappeared?” asked the second cook. “Or killed like Burum, Attumi, and Engwar?”
“No!” gasped the first. “They found the bodies?”
“Not that I know, but it can’t be a coincidence.” The second looked triumphant, as if she’d just scored a point in their verbal joust of scuttlebutt. “Either they helped the abductors or they were unlucky enough to get in the way. The fact there are no corpses makes me think it’s the first reason.”
That explains why the household is hiring servants, and why the Steward is so suspicious.
Servants had access to their masters at their most vulnerable, as well as their masters’ most valuable treasures. Stewards and majordomos like Nessa had to be careful only to choose those they knew could be trusted. To discover that the Lady Briana’s maidservant and her husband were traitors would deal Nessa a severe blow in her master’s eyes.
Killian will definitely want to know about this.
Evren set the pot down—a little too hard—and the clank of metal on stone caught the cook’s attention. The rotund, flour-covered woman stared at him through narrowed eyes. Suspicion, or perhaps too much of the wine she was supposed to add to the master’s dinner, turned her cheeks a dark red.
“Here now, who are you, then?” she demanded.
Evren gave them a shy smile. “Evren. I’m new.”
The cook bristled. “Well, new boy, don’t you know it’s not polite to eavesdrop?”
“Sorry.” Evren made a show of looking apologetic, even wrung his hands in a sham of contrition.
“Sorry’s right!” snapped the maidservant. “Best mind yourself, else you’ll earn yourself a whipping from Samall.”
“Here!” The cook thrust a huge pot filled with filthy water and vegetable peelings at him. “Take this outside and empty it in the horses’ trough. Then get yourself to Samall and find a duty that keeps you out of our way.”
With a mumbled apology, Evren seized the pot and hauled it out of the kitchens. The pot was heavy and over-full. He grimaced as the filthy water sloshed onto his clothing—he had little doubt Samall would take him to task for staining his new uniform.
The kitchens let out onto a courtyard at the rear of the mansion, bordered by the stables on one side and the sandstone wall on the other. Around a corner from the courtyard stood the tradesman’s entrance, which was used to haul in supplies. Evren had just made it to the horses’ trough outside the stables when he caught sight of Samall locked in a hushed conversation with another servant in the shadows of the back gate. Something about Samall’s dark expression and the way his eyes darted around roused Evren’s suspicion. Pot in hand, he ducked out of sight around the corner before the attendant caught sight of him.
Every instinct screamed that he needed to listen in on that conversation and find out what was going on. They are clearly up to no good.
After a breathless moment, he peered toward the back gate. He had to creep closer to be able to see and hear them. To his relief, Samall and the manservant were still talking, and they showed no sign of having spotted him.
“…need to go now,” Samall was saying in a tense whisper. “Her return cannot bode well for our cause. If we can take her again, this time without bloodshed, our brothers will have the leverage we need over the Arch-Guardian. And if not, her death will convince the father of the folly of ignoring our instructions. Either way, he must be forced to make the right choice when the time comes to act.”
“I will get word to our brothers, but surely it would be better to wait until after nightfall,” the servant replied. “If the Indomitables catch me, they will—”
Samall cut him off with a slash of his hand. “That is the price of what we do, the price we are all willing to pay for the sake of Shalandra’s future.”
After a moment, the second man nodded.
“I will cover for your absence,” Samall said. “Go, but hurry back. We will be attending the Arch-Guardian in the Pharus’ palace tonight. It will be
the perfect opportunity to plan tomorrow’s strike.”
The servant clasped Samall’s hand. “Keeper smile on you and guard you from the Final Destruction.”
“And you, Brother.” With a nod, Samall pulled open the back door for the man to slip out.
Evren ducked back into his hiding place near the stables as Samall turned away. He couldn’t risk the man finding out he’d been overheard. Whatever he was planning couldn’t be good.
And they’ve got something planned for Lady Briana. According to the kitchen gossip, people had died during the young lady’s abduction. Hailen had just been assigned to serve Lady Briana directly. He could be in danger. Especially given that they’re talking about possibly killing her.
But what was he supposed to do? He had no idea who Samall and his comrade reported to, or what they had planned for the following night. His only goal right now—beyond finding the Blade of Hallar—was to keep Hailen safe.
Strange as it felt, he had only one person he could rely on right now.
I’ve got to get to Killian and tell him what’s going on.
But, before he could move, Samall’s screeching shout broke the silence of the now-empty courtyard. “Where are you, you incompetent lout?”
Evren contemplated the rear gate for a moment. He could get out before Samall found him, but when he returned, he’d have to explain his absence. It was too early in his employment to do anything that would raise suspicion.
He darted back to his pot, scooped it up, and hauled it toward the horses’ trough inside the stable. He’d just finished tipping it up before Samall strode into view in the courtyard.
“What in the Keeper’s name is delaying you, boy?” the attendant roared.
Evren, recalling Cavad’s advice, kept his eyes on the ground and his mouth shut, but held up the empty pot by way of explanation.
Samall’s cuff caught him on the side of the head with enough force to send him stumbling. Yet Evren had taken far harder blows and come back swinging. Instinct and hard years on the streets kicked in, and his fists clenched, his muscles going tense. His right arm actually pulled back into a jab before he caught himself.
No! He sucked in a breath and fought to rein in his temper, push back the near-overwhelming urge to fight back. His head rang from the strike, more with anger than pain. He could knock in the attendant’s teeth and turn the pudgy bastard into a bleeding, sobbing puddle. But he’d get nowhere assaulting his superior on his first day. Slowly, he let out his breath and forced his fists to unclench.
Samall seemed not to notice the internal war. “Let’s go, boy!” He seized Evren’s arm and hauled him out of the stables. “There’s much to do to prepare for our departure to the Palace of Golden Eternity tonight.”
Evren ground his teeth and allowed himself to be manhandled. When the time came, when he uncovered whatever sinister plot Samall was involved in, he’d enjoy returning the man’s abuse a hundredfold.
But not yet. Not until he found out what the servant had planned for Lady Briana. He’d listen and watch; his position as footman meant he could keep a close eye on the entrances to the mansion for any hint of threat.
And, at the first opportunity, he’d find a way to send word to Killian. Something told him the blacksmith—clearly more than just a simple artisan—would know what to do.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“Carry on, then!” The black-armored Indomitable’s stern expression didn’t waver, but he waved Kodyn through after a few seconds.
“Thank you.” Kodyn gave the guard a friendly smile and hurried on his way. Inside, however, his guts churned.
That’s the third time I’ve been stopped since leaving Suroth’s.
Indomitables patrolled the Keeper’s Tier and Defender’s Tier, their eyes vigilant as they sought any not wearing the blue or gold-braided headbands that marked them as residents of the uppermost levels. Kodyn’s Praamian pale skin made him stand out from the bronzed Shalandrans like a stormcloud in clear blue skies.
Good thing I’ve got this headband. The strip was made of braided gold and green cloth and a silver disc displaying the Arch-Guardian’s sigil on his forehead. Though it set his skin itching, he’d put up with it as long as it got him where he needed to go.
Yet it felt somehow wrong to be strolling around in plain sight. After a life spent in the shadows, he hated the scrutiny. He’d prefer the shadows, sewers, or rooftops any day.
Thankfully, once he reached the Artisan’s Tier, the tier of the commerce-minded Intaji and intellectual Zadii, he should have no problems evading the Indomitables’ attention. One more foreigner wouldn’t stand out among the marketplaces—Commerce Square and Industry Square, Suroth had called them.
Kodyn had discovered that only one avenue, Death Row, led to the uppermost tiers. With the solid walls, thick gates, and ever-present patrols of Indomitables standing guard, it would be nearly impossible to get back to the Dhukari tier unseen. He’d have to enjoy the anonymity of the crowded Artisan’s Tier while he could.
The Indomitables holding the gate that exited the Defender’s Tier barely paid him any attention. They focused more about who entered rather than those who left. Kodyn was perfectly happy with that. The less people noticed him, the better.
The road descending from the Defender’s Tier was mostly empty until it reached the intersection with Artificer’s Courseway, the avenue that ran east to west along the Artisan’s Tier. The Courseway, however, was near clogged with people, wagons, carts, and draft animals.
Kodyn scanned the crowd warily. He hadn’t caught anyone following him, but he wouldn’t abandon the cautious habits he’d developed over nearly a decade in the Night Guild. His eyes took in every detail, which his brain quickly categorized as mundane, interesting, or threatening. The mundane was ignored, but he paid attention to everything else.
The graffiti on a nearby wall fell into the “interesting” category. “Child of Spirits” had been painted in crude, crimson letters atop the fresh whitewash of a bakery. Kodyn had seen “Child of Gold” painted on the lower tier, and the near-reverence of the young Earaqi men had intrigued him. To see it here on the Artisan’s Tier added to his interest.
But he had more important things to focus on than curious street art. As soon as he was out of sight of the Indomitables guarding the Defender’s Tier gate, he slipped into the shadows of the nearest side street. His fingers loosened the knots holding his ornate headband in place, and he replaced it with the green band worn by all non-Shalandrans.
On the uppermost tiers, he’d need Suroth’s headband to get around. Down here, the gold-and-green with its bright sigil-bearing silver disc would just draw more attention. He’d blend into the crowd far more easily as just one more foreigner roaming through the markets and shops of the Artisan’s Tier.
He missed his dull-colored Hawk’s clothing, but the shendyt and tunic he wore beneath his simple cloak made him look as ordinary as he could manage in a city of dark-skinned Shalandrans. He didn’t dare wear the hood of his ornate stole pulled forward—that would only draw more attention—but he tugged his long, dark hair free of its tail and let it hang around his face. That, at least, would obscure his features so he wouldn’t be recognized.
He shot a longing glance up toward the rooftops of the Artisan’s Tier buildings. If only this was Praamis, I could run around the Hawk’s Highway without worrying about being spotted by the Indomitables. The maze of rope walkways, wooden bridges, and metal beams that crisscrossed the Praamian rooftops made it easier for the Night Guild to travel around the city undetected.
Here, however, the buildings with their smooth sandstone walls would prove more difficult to scale, and few things would draw unwanted attention faster than a young foreigner crashing through a thatched roof.
With a sigh, he stepped out into the lane. I guess we’re doing this the Fox way.
Like every other apprentice in House Hawk, he’d spent the better part of a year running with the apprentices of Hous
e Fox, the street-level counterparts to House Hawk’s third-story thieves. He’d never quite mastered the art of picking pockets to the satisfaction of the older Foxes, but he’d lifted enough to earn his way. But he had excelled at moving around the city without drawing attention. Even years later, the old skills came back to him easily.
Sliding through a busy street and thick crowds unseen was an art form. It started with innocuous-looking clothing, which meant he’d had to forsake his Praamian clothing in exchange for more traditional Shalandran dress. Literally, it felt like a dress. He could move well enough, but he missed the pockets and pouches he’d had in his vests and cloak.
He moved in a slight hunch, head tilted down, yet his eyes never stopped moving as they scanned the streets. His movements flowed with the crowds that surged and pushed around him, and he kept close to larger packs of people—servants from Dhukari households, pale-skinned foreigners, even heavily-laden wagons. As long as he didn’t move too fast or jostle anyone too hard, he could almost blend into the throng of the two marketplaces.
The trinkets of Industry Square and the produce of Commerce Square held little interest to him, but he used the stalls and shops for cover. He doubled back on his trail twice just to be certain no one followed him before finally pushing through Commerce Square and heading west toward his true destination.
He drew in a deep breath as he caught sight of The Gilded Parlour, one of five brothels permitted in Shalandra—one for each tier. It catered primarily to the Zadii and Intaji that lived on this tier, though some Earaqi managed to scrape together enough coin for a night of pleasure with the golden-painted women with their ornate white and brown headbands.
The women of The Gilded Parlour wore the tight-fitting kalasiris dresses common to Shalandra, but with the upper hems stopping well below their breasts. Though some used the leather straps for modesty, most used the low-cut design of the dresses to draw attention to the wares they proudly displayed for all passersby. The golden paint that covered every inch of their skin made them seem to glow in the afternoon sunlight like the rest of the city.
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