by Phil Tucker
In his eyes, at least.
“Kish.” He gave the mop another prod. “It evening already?”
“You look… perfect.” She reached for his arm then drew back at the last moment, catching herself. “And a mop? I’d never in a thousand years have thought I’d see this day.”
“Laugh all you want,” he said, trying not to growl. “The mop’s proven my best friend. Lets me wander around without being ordered to scrub pots. Everyone assumes I know what I’m doing and am going somewhere on purpose.”
“Perhaps you’ve found your true calling,” she said. “But I have to go. I’m to be introduced to Keshun, the royal cook.”
“Better hope he doesn’t ask you to cook anything,” said Jarek. “That would ruin your cover.”
“You think I can’t cook?” Kish arched an eyebrow. “I’m not Annara, you know. I enjoy making my own meals.”
Jarek straightened up. “You do? How come you’ve never cooked me anything, then?”
“We’ve been a little distracted with saving the empire.” She flashed a smile. “Remember? Now. Wish me luck.”
“Luck,” he said, and she was gone, striding with confidence through the ranks of servants who stepped aside and bowed their heads.
His own tunic and pants were an undyed pale brown, splashed with grease and dirty water. Nobody was going to step aside for him.
“You there!” An older man in a pale yellow outfit and with a face like a constipated dog stopped and pointed at him. “What are you doing?”
Jarek took his time looking down at his mop then back up at the man. “Mopping?”
“We need help bringing up more water from the central well. Go!”
Jarek bowed and propped his mop against the wall, then set off purposefully into the kitchen. He wove his way between tables where cooks were mincing vegetables into small mountains, along a line of massive bronze cauldrons that hung from chains above beds of glowing coals, dozens of young boys sweating as they added more fuel and raked the coals into place.
Central well. Central well. Asking such a basic question would get him noticed. Perhaps he could find someone with an empty bucket and follow them?
A stern-faced man clad in crimson and brown was walking in his direction, accompanied by the voluminous man Jarek knew to be the head cook of the main kitchens. The head cook was listening with a perplexed and sympathetic expression as the other man spoke sharply to him, and Jarek turned away to pick up a tray of dirty dishes as they passed.
“…the order was issued in your name! The tablet bore your signature! I ask again: how can you know nothing about this?”
The head cook spread his hands apologetically. “I’ve told you, I never sent an order for you to stay home. Why would I do such a thing?”
The pair moved past Jarek and their conversation was lost in the hubbub.
Jarek set down the tray and stared at their backs. That had to be one of the three assistant cooks. Why hadn’t he obeyed his orders? Instinct caused Jarek to follow. Ducking his head, he moved in as close behind them as he could without being noticed.
“…of course, I blame myself for not disregarding your command immediately; now I have wasted precious hours hesitating at home instead of being present at my station, assisting master Keshun. By Nekuul, what a disaster!”
“Not a complete disaster. A new assistant cook has been assigned to help him; I myself effected the introductions but moments ago.”
The royal assistant stopped and turned sharply upon the head cook. “Excuse me?”
Jarek pivoted smoothly to continue past them, and then stopped beside a number of empty baskets which he began to stack.
“Why, yes. She came with excellent references. From Rekkidu. She is with master Keshun as we speak.”
“Could it be? Are we to be replaced so neatly? Shamed out of our duties with sham orders and then refused a return?”
“I - but surely not—”
Out of the corner of his eye, Jarek saw the royal assistant draw himself up and smooth down his crisp uniform, face pale, mouth a trembling slit. “I shall get to the bottom of this. Excuse me, Oshan.”
Jarek picked up a basket and followed the royal assistant, who strode briskly through the din and chaos toward the far side of the hall. He had to stop him. A blow to the back of the head with the Sky Hammer? No; too violent, too obvious. And the Sky Hammer was with Sisu. Accidentally break his leg by kicking him in the side of the knee? No. Throw boiling soup in his face?
A servant approached bearing a tray of clay ramekins filled with brown liquid. He would pass the royal assistant in a matter of moments, both squeezing past each other between the flensing stations.
Jarek rushed forward. The servant saw him approach, filling the gap that he’d intended to squeeze through in order to avoid the royal assistant. He slowed, went to move aside. Jarek thrust himself past the assistant, grabbed the servant by the shoulder, and spun him around.
There was a shout of dismay followed by the shattering of clay ramekins. Jarek hunched over nearly double as he raced off, risking only one glance over his shoulder to take in the royal assistant staring down at his now utterly befouled and ruined uniform.
Success? Perhaps. The key to hit-and-run tactics was to not get bogged down in the engagement, but to make good your escape and then regroup. Many a sortie had sought to press a momentary advantage and become stuck in a protracted combat, to their eventual destruction.
No. As much as Jarek wanted to witness the outcome of his ploy, it was best for him to flee and regroup behind the roasting spits.
Once there, he hunkered down and spied between the revolving hogs. He couldn’t quite make out the royal assistant. Was that flash of brown him? He chanced to stand a little taller, craning from side to side as he peered between the aisles, searching for the man.
“You!”
Jarek wheeled about to stare in horror at the head cook, Oshan.
“Hiding here like a whipped cur! I saw you barrel into Kelas and knock his gravy dishes into Jharan! To my eyes it looked deliberate!”
The other cooks and assistants were drawing back, aghast. Even the young boys whose job it was to turn the spits slowed down their movements.
“My apologies,” said Jarek. Should he bow or something? Kneel? Probably wouldn’t make a difference. “I had to…”
“Had to what, exactly? Oshan was fully six inches shorter than him but bristled like a boar surprised in the act of impregnating another pig’s sow. “Inexcusable! Jharan will have to wear the uniform of a common cook! Thirty lashes! Even a lummox of your size should feel that sting!”
“Thirty lashes?” Jarek placed his hands on his hips. “Really? For knocking over the gravy?”
“Impertinence! Who do you think you are, speaking back to me in such a manner!?”
“You’re upset,” said Jarek. “Understandably so. Why don’t you take a deep breath and then reconsider the situation?”
“Forty lashes!” Oshan’s face was turning red.
“Fine, fine. Forty lashes.” Jarek looked around. “Are there guards or something who should be escorting me somewhere?”
Oshan’s head quivered, as if he were trying to shake it left and right at the same time and resulting in consequent shivering immobility. “Are you simple? Dangerously idiotic? No! No guards in my kitchen! Report to the butcher yard and there tell them your sentence! And do not think of avoiding this fate. I shall ask tomorrow if you were whipped, and if I find out you were not I shall have the soles of your feet removed with a wooden spoon!”
“All right, all right, calm down.” Jarek squared his shoulders. “I’m going, see? To the butcher yard. Forty lashes.”
Oshan’s mouth opened and closed like a beached fish. Jarek decided not to provoke him further and walked back into the kitchen, trailed now by open stares of incredulity and amazement.
So much for hanging out with a mop.
“Butcher yard this way?” he asked a gaping old man with
a scaling knife. The old man shook his head and pointed out the right path. “Thanks.”
He’d hoped to force Jharan to return home for a new uniform. No such luck. Where did the servants and kitchen staff receive their uniforms? Was there a dispensary or a quartermaster?
Jarek came to a stop, hands on his hips. Once more he was saved by the sheer size of the kitchens - the people here ignored him, ignorant of the debacle which had just taken place one hall over.
“Excuse me,” said Jarek, touching a woman on the shoulder as she passed him by carrying twisted bundles of dried reeds. “I was told to get a new uniform. Where do I go?”
The woman’s initial scowl of annoyance faded away as she looked him up and down. “I’ve not seen you here before. New to the kitchens?”
“Yes,” said Jarek.
“The name’s Mesana. You’ll hear the story about me and the three stable boys soon enough, but I tell you now it’s a pack of lies put out by Loros after I rejected him. Clear?”
“Clear,” said Jarek.
She smiled. “Good. Wouldn’t want a handsome fellow like yourself getting the wrong idea. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“And your… reeds?”
“These can wait. Come on!”
Jarek followed Mesana as she wove lithely through the kitchens. She wasn’t hard to keep his eyes on, and in another life he’d have been curious to learn more about Loros, the three stable boys and whatever trouble she’d entangled herself in. But not in this one. The stepped into a narrow hallway so filled with bustling servants rushing to and fro that it reminded Jarek of an ant trail, and then took a turn, a second turn, and emerged into a large room with high shelving running up the back wall behind a broad counter.
“Here you are,” said Mesana, turning to him with a smile. “Present your requisition tablet to old Resano over there and ignore his sharp tongue. He only finds joy in mocking people, and there’s no better way to irk him than to smile at his every insult. What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t,” said Jarek.
“Mysterious,” said Mesana. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you in the kitchens. See you around, stranger.” She grinned and left.
Jarek sidestepped out of the archway and examined the crowd milling before the counter. People were collecting all manner of basic household goods, from buckets to brushes to jars to clay pots. Jharan the royal cooking assistant stood at the counter, face scrunched up in anger as he waited, arms crossed, staring out at nothing and ignoring the sniggers and hushed conversations around him.
The gravy had done a masterful job of ruining the assistant’s uniform altogether, and had been thick and dark enough that it looked as if Jharan had been caught behind a donkey suffering from violent dysentery at precisely the wrong moment.
Jarek hid his grin behind his hand and waited. Nobody paid him any mind.
Five minutes later Jharan stepped away from the counter, a folded uniform held carefully in hand, and began to make his way toward the exit.
New plan. It wasn’t enough to ruin his clothing. He’d have to do something more permanent. Nothing too violent, however; Jharan was an innocent in all this. Relatively speaking.
What would Acharsis do? Fake a message from a superior, perhaps. No; he didn’t have the clay tablet to back it up. Feed him something that would give him the runs? That could—
“You!” Jharan had stopped before him, face darkening. “You’re the oaf who—”
Jarek punched Jharan as hard as he could, square in the face. The blow lifted the royal assistant off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground, senseless.
Several people shouted in alarm and then the whole room went silent.
Jarek rubbed at his knuckles and pitched his voice to carry. “The man spoke to me in an impolite tone.”
“But…” said a servant in blue and gray. “He - he was a royal cook. You’re - you’re a cleaner.”
“Etiquette knows no boundaries,” said Jarek. “That, and he slept with my sister.”
Four Death Watch guards strode into the room, clearly drawn by the shouting. “What’s going on here?” demanded their leader.
“Shit,” said Jarek. He recognized the man. The same fool who had sought to accost him in the noble quarter when they’d been making their way to Istrikar’s.
“You?” The Death Watch captain dropped his hand to the pommel of his sword. “Seize—”
Jarek lunged forward and punched the guard right in the mouth. The blow lifted the man off his feet and sent him crashing to the ground, senseless.
Even the other three Death Watch guards gaped.
“But…” said the same servant in blue and gray. “He… he… did he also…?”
“My sister gets around,” said Jarek grimly, rubbing at his knuckles.
As one, the three guards moved to draw their blades. Jarek clamped his hand on the wrist of the closest man, preventing him from drawing more than three inches of his bronze sword, and socked a punch across his jaw. The man was made of sterner stuff than his captain, however, and while his head snapped back, he didn’t drop.
The other two moved in to flank him, the short nature of their blades to their advantage in this crowded room. The crowd yelled and surged back, opening a space around them.
Jarek kept his grip on the guard’s wrist and clamped his other hand around the man’s throat, then heaved him up and around into the next guard. They both staggered into the wall as the third stabbed at Jarek with a harsh shout.
It was a good attack. No nonsense, straight for the gut, fast and skilled. Jarek spun so that the cut sliced along his ribs instead of piercing them and completed his spin to whiplash a backhand across the man’s cheek.
Or that was the plan. The guard raised his arm at the last moment, catching the blow against his shoulder and bicep, and even though the force of the backhand caused him to stagger, he didn’t drop.
Jarek backed up. The three guards regained their balance and spread out, faces hard, eyes flat with murderous intent.
“I need my hammer,” growled Jarek. He cast around for a weapon. The captain’s blade was sheathed and out of reach.
There. Jarek hopped back, clasped a large clay amphora by its twin handles and lifted it with great effort. It was full of liquid, and he almost fell beneath its weight.
The three guards yelled and charged.
Changing his plan at the last moment, Jarek hurled the amphora at their feet. It exploded into shards of clay and dark wine, causing one of the men to slip and go down. The other two faltered, shocked, and Jarek leaped at them, brushing aside their blades with a sweep of his forearm and punching the center guard in the throat.
The man went down choking beside his companion. The third regained his balance and smote at Jarek’s head, who ducked with convulsive desperation. The sword sliced deeply into his shoulder. From his half crouch Jarek exploded upward with an uppercut, fueling the blow with the twisting of his hips and power of his legs, burying his fist so deeply in the guard’s stomach that the man vomited as he fell to the ground.
A kick across the temple of the first guard dropped him, and then all was still but for the choking and gagging of the other two.
Jarek stepped back, gasping for breath. Blood was running freely down his arm. There were two lacerations across his forearm where he’d knocked the blades aside, and his ribs were aflame with the pain of the first cut.
Still, not bad for an unarmed old man against four.
Panting, he glanced at the others in the room. They stood frozen, clutching at each other, their expressions part disbelief, part horror. A look that was rapidly growing familiar.
“Excuse me,” said Jarek. “I have to, uh…” He ducked out of the room and hurried down the hallway. How to get back to the kitchens? He could lose himself in that vastness until he found a way to bandage himself. Was it a left and then a right? No. He’d made a wrong turn.
Jarek slowed down. No sense in plunging on. All he had t
o do was trace his steps back to the last turn.
Shouts echoed from behind him. Cries of alarm and anger.
All right. No turning back, then.
Wincing, he tore off a strip of his tunic and pressed it into a wad against his shoulder. The fabric began to turn red. Speaking of which, the floor behind him was speckled with his blood.
Not good.
Hugging his arms to his chest so that he no longer dripped, Jarek broke into a jog. He had to get out of the general vicinity. Had to leave before he was caught.
He broke out into a broader hallway, and a number of servants did a double take upon noting his bloodied condition. They then immediately glanced over to a group of dead guards who stood sentry before a stairwell leading up. When the dead failed to move, the servants relaxed and resumed their business.
No sense in waiting. He’d done everything he could to help Kish. Time for him to regroup with Sisu.
Taking a deep breath, Jarek strode between the dead guards and mounted the steps, heading higher into the ziggurat.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Acharsis woke to feel a cool palm brush against his brow. His head pounded and his vision was blurry, which made seeing who sat beside him in the dark an impossible task. A woman? Annara?
“Shh.” The voice was husky. Was that desire he sensed? Fingertips traced the cut down the side of his face, and then the stranger brought the fingers to her lips and licked.
All right. Not Annara.
“What a delicious gift. What an unexpected surprise. Who left you here? Who prepared you so neatly?”
Acharsis’ mouth was parched, his throat locked. His thoughts milled about his mind, evading coherency like chickens fleeing a farmer’s son.
“Was it Azanasu? It would be just like him to cater to my needs in such a manner. To take the edge off my nerves…” The woman bent over him, smelling of incense and musk, and licked his cheek. “Older than I’m used to, but no matter; all flesh suffers the same.”
Older? The thought stung Acharsis through his fugue. Was a time women would beg to—