by M K Hutchins
Now we were both awkward again. What a horrible conversationalist I was. Bane bit the corner of his mouth. It made him look boyishly adorable, like he’d broken a vase and didn’t know how to apologize enough.
I didn’t let the silence stretch. “Could we move on to the next garden?”
“Of course! It’s my favorite. Maybe it will cheer you, Dami.”
As we walked, the fragrance of the blossoms lingered. Call me Plum, I wanted to say. I’m so tired of hearing people call me Dami.
I silently sighed. A silly, dangerous wish. I’d hear my own name again in two years, when I returned to my parents.
We turned around a hedge. A manicured lawn ran down to a pond. On the far bank, finches flitted between tall reeds. White pebbles blanketed the shore nearest us, matching the lazy clouds reflected on the water’s surface.
I stopped and stared. “It looks like an opal embedded in mother-of-pearl.”
“Oh, I don’t love it just because it’s beautiful. Come!”
He hurried down the lawn. I frowned. Would he throw me in the pond? I followed cautiously.
He picked up one of the rocks, smooth and circular. Facing the lake, he curled his forefinger around the edge, then cocked his wrist back and threw.
The rock danced across the pond, jumping from one spot to another, leaving a ring of ripples at each spot it touched. I couldn’t tell if the rock sank into the water or made it to the other shore, but the concentric rings blended and mixed on the lake in mesmerizing patterns. “How did you do that?”
“Like this.” He picked up another rock, gingerly held it, and tossed.
“You must be agile-of-hand.”
“Strong-of-arm, actually.”
Oh, how I ached to make him parsnips. I managed not to look at his missing limb. Someone with agile-of-hand might still be a scribe or artisan, but what use was one strong arm? “It skips because you throw it hard?”
“No. It has to be done gently.”
I peered at him, confused.
Bane laughed. “Just because I’m gifted with strength doesn’t mean I neglected everything else. I will never be as agile as some, but I can still learn agility, Dami. My legs have no gift, but I can run.”
I picked up a rock, tried to hold it as he did, and threw. It plunked straight into the water. “Are you sure you’re not double-gifted?”
An infant could receive two birthgifts, but chefs rarely tried. If the targeting ingredients weren’t perfectly balanced against each other, the child ended up with little or no gift.
“You flatter me. No, there’s a trick.” He picked up another rock. “It has to spin. Toss it low and flat—you want a disk of spinning rock, barely kissing the surface of the water.”
“Maybe I should leave this noble art to you.” I glanced back up the lawn. “Will we get in trouble for this?”
“I haven’t yet. Here.” He handed me another rock, his amputated arm bent inward as if he were respectfully presenting it with two hands. “This is a good one.”
My toss skipped once. Watching my stone float through the air—that was surreal, magical.
“Here. Go again.”
We spent an hour like that, Bane mostly handing me rocks. At my best, I got four skips.
It sort of reminded me of Dami, when we were younger. Nana would rest against a boulder while we collected pinecones and arranged them in pretty patterns on the forest floor. The next day, they’d be mussed. Nana told us the Ancestors did it, though I’m pretty sure she knew it was squirrels, too.
But still, it felt like magic. It felt like watching rocks float.
Dami and I hadn’t done that in years. I started going with Father into the village. Dami started hiding in the woods.
Eventually, Bane and I sat still and watched the ripples on the lake. I leaned back on both elbows; he leaned back on one.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to get you some parsnips?” It was the wrong thing to ask, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Offering to steal from the kitchens for me? Hawak would be outraged.”
I flustered. I itched to examine the amputation. Prod it with my fingers. Ask him if it hurt anywhere.
“Everyone worries about me. But you don’t need to. I lost my arm battling at Rivergrass. I’m used to it, even if no one else is.”
That had been one of the earliest battles—over three years ago. “You must have been a young soldier.”
“Sixteen. And so excited. I’d trained my whole life, you know. Not just the hand-to-hand stuff that I naturally excelled at with my birthgift. I learned archery, javelin, the construction of siege engines... everything. I wanted to be a commander, one day.”
No one would make him a commander now.
I almost offered him condolences but thought better of it. “Are you still glad you went?”
“Glad? No. Would I choose to do it again? Yes. Fighting... was different than I’d envisioned. Archers have it easiest. They can’t see the face of the men they impale. But I served Rowak. I’m alive. And, Ancestors be praised, I have a post.”
I glanced at the band around his arm—it showed a road zig-zagging down a stylized mountain. “I’m afraid I don’t know what that insignia means.”
“Ah. I’m a runner. A messenger. Lady Sulat uses me for dispatches in the palace and Askan-Wod.”
“Lady Sulat...” It sounded like a name I should know.
“She’s the Minister of Military Affairs—King Alder’s sister and General Yuin’s wife. She’s expecting her second child in three months.”
General Yuin, the hero of Rowak. That name I did know. “You speak her name with great admiration.”
“She gave me a post when she could have abandoned me to whatever fate brought. Not that ill-fate seems to bother you. Nisaat told me about your journey here.”
I fidgeted, self-conscious.
“Braving the road... weren’t you afraid of robbers?”
“Robbers? I had no money!”
“They still could have hurt you,” he said, voice soft. I thought of the soldiers, the merchants, and the villagers’ fear of Bloodmarrows and strangers. Maybe Nana had watched over me, seen me safely here.
“I did sleep near the carter stations, for some measure of safety.” I shrugged. “I had to get to the palace, so I came.”
“You’d make a good soldier.”
“What?” I jerked upright, heart pounding. He knew about the real Dami. How could he know?
“I meant no insult,” Bane said quickly. “You’re just so dedicated to your position. And you’re strong-of-arm. It’s a good combination. I certainly wouldn’t mistake you for a soldier, if you think I was calling you masculine.”
The terror flowed out of me as quickly as it had come, leaving me cold and shaken. I hoped everyone did mistake Dami for a soldier. And she’d always been prettier than me. “Oh. Umm. Thank you.”
“I was nervous to meet you, after hearing Nisaat’s story,” Bane admitted.
I had to laugh. “Me? Am I as terrifying as you’d imagined?”
“No. You’re surprisingly easy to talk to.” Bane smiled, and the warmth of it seemed to flow right into my bones. “It’s almost time for supper, but I could walk you by the aviary, first.”
“I’d like that.” The words tumbled out of my mouth before I could stop myself. I ought to be hiding in the kitchens, not out in the palace lying about my identity to a young war veteran.
“Good. I’d hate for you to miss the aviary. There’s a few messenger birds, plus hawks and eagles—not that anyone is going hunting with the war on.”
As soon as we left the manicured pond, I smelled the tang of bird dung. Soon, chirps and coos filled the air.
“There.”
The white-washed building boasted a lintel carved with falcons. Bane strolled up the steps; I followed a half-pace behind.
A guard in blue, not black, stood at the door. “The aviary is closed.”
“We’ll just look—I’m not trying
to send a message.”
The guard sneered and spat in Bane’s face. “I won’t open for military men unless they have orders.”
I jerked half a step back. Why was he so rude? Bane clenched his hand. I glanced between the two of them, Bane furious, the guard smirking with both hands on his spear. I didn’t care why they hated each other—it wasn’t worth fighting and jeopardizing our posts.
“Let’s go,” I said, starting to follow my own advice. “I don’t like birds, anyway.”
Bane’s shoulders slumped. He knew I was right.
As we turned to leave, the guard cracked the butt of his spear against Bane’s shin, sending him tumbling down the stairs.
“Bane!”
I rushed after him. The guard behind me snickered, but he stayed put. I dropped into the habits I’d developed with Father. I knelt by Bane’s side. He wasn’t breathing right.
“Don’t try to move.” I pressed my fingers to his ribcage in a number of spots. “Does this send shooting pain?”
He shook his head and gently shifted away from my hand.
“I’m not going to hurt you. It looks like the air’s knocked out of you. Let me look at your shin.”
I reached for his pant leg, but he scuttled back and sat up, careful not to touch me. “It’s just... bruised,” he gasped, his breath coming back. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”
I pursed my lips, ready to give him a lecture on how to be a good patient, but managed to bite my tongue. “I’m trying to help. Someone ought to look at it.”
“Then it ought to be Hawak, not a lovely young woman.”
Oh. Oh. He was right, of course. We weren’t family. We were close in age. He didn’t know I was a trained chef. I hadn’t thought twice about it—he was hurt.
“You should still get some sour duck feet from Hawak,” I said, trying to sound professional to hide my embarrassment. “Or, if he won’t get out delicacies, a salad of carrots and a dried stone fruit—plums or cherries would do, but apricots compliment carrots best.”
Carrots targeted the leg; those fruits targeted muscles and would minimize bruising. Sour—strength—would ease the pain.
Bane tilted his head to the side, staring at me with his eyebrows frowning together.
Dami wouldn’t know any of that. I coughed. “Like I said, Hawak is always lecturing the apprentices. It’s hard not to pick things up.”
Another guard in blue rounded the aviary. “What’s going on here?”
The man who’d struck Bane leaned nonchalantly on his spear. “That idiot soldier came at me. But I’ve got it under control.”
“Good.”
What muck. I stood to give the guard the scolding of a lifetime, but Bane shook his head.
Maybe it was safer to let it go, but my throat burned. Striking an unarmed man, then laughing it away?
Bane got to his feet. His voice was still ragged but coming back. “You’re right, Dami. We should go.”
The real Dami would have taken a swing or two at the guard. She once broke a boy’s nose for trying to kiss her. But I walked away with Bane, shame tightening in my chest.
The pair of guards chortled to themselves, but they stayed put. Bane’s shoulders didn’t relax until we sat on a cold stone bench in a nearby garden, a brick wall separating us from the aviary. It had to be a summer or autumn garden—there were no flowers, and the spindly branches of the shrubs only held dew-shaped leaf buds.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Nothing broken or bleeding, nothing to fuss about.”
My indignation hadn’t cooled, even if Bane’s had. “He struck you. You’re going to report him, aren’t you?”
“The Palace Guard has never liked the military.” He shook his head. “I’ll be in more trouble than him if it’s reported.”
“You did nothing wrong!”
“I’m also a soldier. I should have prevented an attack—or dodged it. His officers would cheer if they heard a man in blue landed a strike on a soldier in black.”
“That’s... that’s...” I spluttered like a lid on a boiling crock—I didn’t have words for the stupidity.
Bane shrugged. “They guard the Redwood Palace. We fight wars. They train in comfort. We train in the mud. The Guard’s jealous.”
“Why are weaklings in charge of guarding the king?”
“Oh, they’re not weak. They do nothing but guard, sleep, and practice. In a duel, they’d match most soldiers. But they live in the palace. They eat well. They sleep well. They’re soft.”
I rubbed the side of my head. I hadn’t realized there was much of a difference between guards and soldiers until now, let alone their mutual animosity.
“It’s getting late.” Bane nodded at the sun, low on the western horizon. “Have I made you miss your meal at the servants’ hall?”
“Hall?”
“Don’t you eat there? Most servants who aren’t someone’s personal attendant do.”
“Oh.” I felt foolish for not realizing that. “I eat in the kitchens.”
Had the apprentices left anything for me? I glanced at the position of the sun. They’d all be retired by now—I had maybe an hour until sunset.
Sunset. And then the Hungry Ghost would appear.
“Would you maybe like to eat in the city tonight?” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I know of a great noodle shop just outside the palace wall.”
Osem might be adept at wielding a torch to get past the Hungry Ghost into the kitchens, but it wasn’t a trick I fancied trying. I stood. “I have to go.”
His soft smile disappeared. “Do you not like noodles? There are other food stands.”
In the kitchen, it felt safe to talk about the Hungry Ghost. But out in the garden, anyone could be listening. “I’m sorry.”
Bane nodded and let me leave without another word.
I jogged into a kitchen empty of people and full of everything else. The dying sunlight and smoldering hearths gleamed over the chaos: stacks of plates, a mountain of crocks, counters coated in flour or dripping some forgotten sauce onto the floor. The greasy smell of bear meat coated the air, but I couldn’t find any leftover hotpot—except for what oozed between the bowls. I sniffed. Nicely seasoned with enough pickle brine to cut through the fat. But what a mess.
Was I supposed to clean this tonight? My stomach churned. I’d assumed the apprentices would scrub on our half-day off.
I wished Osem was here to tell me.
But if leaving these until morning meant losing my post, well, I couldn’t risk that. I glanced at the basket of buckwheat branches on the counter, my stomach rumbling. Were those for me? I didn’t know, so I regretfully left them alone.
I set a pair of crocks with clean water by the hearth and started washing with a half bucket of lukewarm water. A film of cold, congealed sauce coated all the lunch bowls. Could I finish these before sunset? Every creak in the kitchen made me jump—dreading the Ghost, hoping for Osem.
I longed for my stuffy, musty mattress in our small bedroom. Where was Osem, anyway? Not that she’d come home early on her last half-day off.
I ran out of salt and, cursing, stumbled through the cellar until I found more. When I came back into the kitchen, new stacks of bowls and platters awaited me, still warm from supper.
I felt like I’d swallowed vinegar. Of course servants would drop off more dishes as people finished their suppers.
Best to start on the fresh bowls, before they dried. At least I had crocks of warm water to work with now. I grabbed a crock, forgetting to protect my hands with a towel. Cursing, I jumped back.
The whole crocked toppled over, knocking into its fellow. The water from both ran, hissing into the coals.
I stood in a dimmed room, splattered with soot and hot water. A room a Hungry Ghost would shortly besiege. The vinegar in my throat swelled upwards.
“Nana,” I whispered to the corners of the room, “do you hate me? Aren’t you supposed to watch out for me?”
I could
almost hear her voice in my head, the voice she used when I burned myself or cut my knuckles as I tried to perfect some new dish: Oh, little blossom.
The tears prickled the corners of my eyes. I wanted her here. I wanted to hug her, to see her crinkly-bark face. I wanted to be four years old again and know that nothing bad could happen because my nana held my hand.
No warm water, and now my cold water was filthy. I cracked the outside door. Threads of rhubarb-red sunset still streaked the horizon. If I hurried, I could make it. I grabbed a pair of buckets and took one step outside.
Something rattled in the mountain of dirty crocks.
For a brief, painfully hopeful moment, I thought Nana would appear. Then the rattling continued, and I came to my senses.
It was probably a rat.
I set down the buckets and grabbed a broom. The noise came from the center of the crocks. I shifted them around until I found the culprit—a brown-glazed thing with a clattering lid. How had a rat gotten itself stuck in there?
Gently, I toppled the crock over, and prepared to whack the creature senseless.
A snake shot out at me.
I stupidly threw the broom at it and scrambled onto the nearest counter, pulse pounding. The snake darted between the pots and struck. Its teeth hit wood. Then it tried again, but it couldn’t reach over the top of the counter.
The snake coiled itself between my counter and the hearth, keeping warm. I tried to breathe regularly. To let my pulse slow. One snake. One me. I could handle this.
Then I noticed the dotted pattern on its back that marked it as a pit viper. Poisonous.
My throat swelled into a lump.
I doubted an uncommon snake somehow stumbled in here and trapped itself. But why, why would anyone trap an angry pit viper in a crock? All right, the angry part probably came after its imprisonment, but it hadn’t put itself there.
The door creaked open, stirred by a gentle breeze. I hadn’t closed it. I swore under my breath, but I couldn’t reach the door. Not without jumping five feet over a burning hearth to another counter. I’d have to get rid of the snake first.
I couldn’t spot any weapons. Crocks—clean or dirty—sat out of reach. The broom lay on the floor. A row of knives hung over the counter opposite me—another jump I couldn’t make.