The Redwood Palace

by M K Hutchins

  I sighed. “This isn’t about Bane.”

  And then I found myself explaining Fir’s robbery in Meadowind. At least talking blocked out the pandemonium of the kitchens.

  “You’re sure it was him? Not someone who looks like him?”

  I nodded and grabbed a clean rag.

  Osem pursed her lips, serious for once. “It almost sounds like he wanted to make you late, get you dismissed—I mean, that almost happened. But then why not steal your letter?”

  Could that have been his real goal? “My father tucked it into my mantle.”

  “Harder to find and harder to grab.” Osem nodded thoughtfully. “The snake could have scared you away, or worse. The real question,” Osem muttered, “is if you’re the target. Given his history of tormenting servants... maybe he’s trying to get someone on the waiting list into the palace. I underestimated him.”

  Had Osem always been this clever, or had living in the palace taught her to think like that? “Has anyone arrived, since me?”

  “Not with the list moving so slow. Fir’s pranks scared off everyone who wasn’t determined to stay a long time ago.”

  I chewed those ideas over as I scrubbed. Fir couldn’t have met Dami before—he’d believed me when I claimed to be her. His actions probably weren’t personal. But how could getting rid of one servant justify trekking to Meadowind or planting the snake?

  I didn’t have time to contemplate. A servant with a black skirt, her hair sweaty and plastered to her forehead, burst into the kitchen. She leaned against the doorframe, panting. Her voice cut through the clamor, sharp as vinegar. “Lady Sulat has gone into labor.”

  Osem jerked upright. “She’s at seven months!”

  Tanoak froze, terrified.

  “Still—” The servant paused to breathe. “The baby’s coming. She needs a meal to determine the birthgift for the child, my prayers to the Ancestor that it lives.”

  Hawak had traveled a half-day already. A messenger couldn’t fetch him back in time.

  Mouth dry, I turned back to my pots. Tanoak would have to do his best.

  “Does she need any calming infusion, in the meantime?” Tanoak asked.

  The servant shook her head. “She took tea recently. Her first labor was fast—she needs a meal before the child comes.”

  “For what birthgift?” Tanoak asked.

  “I... she just said to hurry.”

  Of course she didn’t name anything. A premature child didn’t need a gift, it needed a meal that would help it live. Strength, agility, senses, endurance—the unfortunate child couldn’t lean any one direction. Its only hope at seeing tomorrow was a balanced soul, a balanced body, a meal of balanced flavor.

  “Perception-of-eye. That’s what the general himself has, correct? Good for archery or overseeing battles. We’ll do that,” Tanoak said.

  The servant, oblivious, nodded and waited in the doorway. The other servants folded their arms and muttered about late meals—but thankfully they decided to wait in the hall.

  Tanoak gathered bowls, cutting boards, and ingredients in his lanky arms. Huckleberries weren’t in season, so he shouted at another apprentice to grab some dried blueberries from the cellar.

  I gritted my teeth. I couldn’t be Plum, couldn’t be the girl who’d helped her father with two dozen deliveries. Dami would say nothing. Dami would scrub pots, because she didn’t know better.

  Tanoak grated hotradish.

  All wrong. Lady Sulat needed the strength of a balanced meal as well to overcome whatever ill-fated complication caused this.

  Tanoak’s hands shook. His grating wasn’t even—and he hadn’t peeled the skin first. A muddy dish. The child would have no birthgift and it wouldn’t matter, because it wouldn’t survive the delivery.

  I needed to stay quiet. I needed to do nothing. My life, my sister’s life, my parent’s wellbeing, and Nana’s afterlife were all at risk.

  But if I sat here and scrubbed crocks, that baby would die because I did nothing. My life wouldn’t be worth saving.

  I felt as woozy as I had when I put my hand in the coals. I hungered for some vinegared venison marrow to give my frame strength. Slowly, I set down the crock I’d been scrubbing. I stood and washed my hands. My injured palm shone pink now, the fresh, tender skin growing in nicely.

  Osem gave me a strange look.

  But I didn’t know how to explain, so I didn’t. Acid burning deep in my throat, I walked up to Tanoak, back as straight as I could make it.

  “You’re doing this wrong.”

  “Excuse me?” He looked at me like I’d sprouted leeks from my ears.

  I took a deep breath. Tanoak and the other apprentices had shown me kindness, but none of them had any business cooking this meal. And I didn’t have time to debate. “You’re going to step aside. I am going to cook. I will not let your incompetence kill a baby.”

  I grabbed a polished stone bowl and cracked three eggs in. I whisked, hand whirring.

  Tanoak gaped at me. So did the other apprentices. Proper whisking takes skill and practice to do it right, to do it fast. A skill I shouldn’t have.

  “Are there any fresh clams?” Eggs gently targeted the whole body—clams did the same and would boost the effect.

  Tanoak shook his head.

  “Is there any stock, made from a whole duck or rabbit carcass?”

  “Here,” one of the other apprentices said.

  “Good. Place it on the table.”

  He did so. He seemed too shocked to do anything else. A spoonful at a time, I added the hot stock to the eggs, always whisking. Only a little stock. Too much too fast would cook the eggs and leave me with strings.

  I tasted the mixture. Honey was too bright for these flavors. “Maple syrup. Scallions. And parsley.”

  Those ingredients would add sweet, spicy, and sour without overwhelming the dish. I added a bit of this, a bit of that, tasted, and adjusted again.

  Tanoak seemed to have gathered himself out of shock. He frowned at me, taking charge. “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

  I dipped a spoon into the concoction, then handed it to him. His eyes lit up.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing,” I returned. Tanoak had no response for that.

  I placed the bowl in the cooler dust of ashes and whisked furiously. The eggs needed to cook without scrambling.

  The maid coughed. “Excuse me for interrupting, but she said it’s urgent.”

  “And it’s not finished.” Raw goop would harm the baby, throwing its body and soul out of balance.

  The mixture changed color and thickened. I found a clean bowl and poured the soft-set custard inside. I tasted it again. One more pinch of salt. Perfect. No need to garnish—I thrust it straight into the servant’s hands. “Give Lady Sulat this.”

  She nodded politely and ran out.

  A kitchenful of apprentices and one dish-scrubber stared at me. I coughed, mouth dry. I didn’t have any explanation. “Excuse me.”

  I brushed past Tanoak and slid into my small room. Darkness mercifully swallowed me. No one knocked. The normal sounds of the kitchen—chopping, sizzling, stirring—gradually returned. Servants bustled in and out, retrieving long-awaited suppers.

  While I cooked, I had nothing but concentration. Now my heart pounded. My palms sweated. My tender new skin smarted from being so carelessly used.

  I wouldn’t get to sit here forever. Too many people—apprentices and servants—had seen. Someone would come. Someone would ask questions. And when they did... how could I answer? I couldn’t let this hurt my parents.

  I wished I knelt at my family’s shrine or in a redwood circle, where I could properly offer my Ancestors a bowl of good food. I wished Grandma was alive—she used to pray for me. She’d known a number of our ancestors when she was a child. She knew how to plead with them.

  My voice creaked out, stiff as overworked dough. “I just want to keep my family alive.”

  The Ancestors prickled my soul. My plea rang false. I�
��d wanted to save an infant, too.

  “I don’t want this to fall on my parents’ heads. Or Dami’s.”

  Ah, but I could protect Dami, even if I couldn’t save my parents from the back-taxes. I could lie. I’d tell them I was a street orphan. I’d jumped Dami on her way here, stolen her papers, and took her position. Given the state I arrived in, who would doubt it?

  They’d execute me for lying to the Royal House. A fitting punishment given that I had, indeed, lied to them.

  “The truth is,” I whispered, insides numb, “I don’t want to die, either.”

  No thoughts followed. My Ancestors couldn’t grant me wisdom there.

  “Please?”

  Any sense of a presence outside myself disappeared. I sat alone in the tiny room. What would Sorrel think of me, if he could see me now? Would he be amused at his former bride-to-be’s predicament? Sorrowful?

  I wished I’d gotten to know him so I could at least picture a face, imagine a response.

  I folded my hands in my lap and closed my eyes, letting the dark hollowness of the room swallow me. I had made the choice to come here—not Dami. And what did I have to fear? If I hanged, I could proudly tell Nana I’d done everything I could to take care of her. Maybe we’d be Hungry Ghosts together.

  Someone knocked. I didn’t answer. The door opened anyway, revealing the same polite servant in the black skirt with two not-so-timid, spear-carrying men behind her. They wore black uniforms—military soldiers, not Palace Guards.

  “Lady Sulat requires your presence,” the servant said, bowing.

  The mother, at least, had survived the labor. I nodded and stood, though my legs felt as sturdy as soggy dumplings. Had something gone amiss with the child? Or was Lady Sulat following through with the inevitable questioning?

  Maybe Lady Sulat always sent soldiers to fetch people, but she probably considered me a spy. An enemy in this drawn-out war.

  The apprentices all watched me leave the kitchen. None smiled. Tanoak stood stiff as a soldier at a funeral. Only Osem wouldn’t meet my eye, but washed crocks as if nothing had happened. She was good at that—at pretending talking about the Hungry Ghost meant nothing, at pretending that a dozen apprentices hadn’t hanged this winter from the walls of Askan-Wod.

  Well. I had my lie ready. Maybe the King would be generous and waive my parents’ back-taxes. At least they’d keep their rank this way.

  After we passed a number of spring-scented gardens, we reached a set of apartments much like others in the palace. The guards marched me up the porch steps, between two red-varnished pillars. Another guard held the door aside for us.

  I barely glimpsed the sitting room—polished wood, rugs, and chairs—as the soldiers hurried me through another lattice door.

  The curtains were drawn back from the bed’s alcove. A single lamp burned on an end table. The place smelled of wood resin and herbed soap, but that didn’t quite override the tang of birthing blood. Intricate carvings of flowers and birds adorned the bed, washing basin, and wardrobe. Their polished redwood shone darkly in the dim light.

  Lady Sulat—who else could it be?—sat in the bed. She looked a few years shy of thirty. Despite her ashen pallor and sweat-slick skin, her face was composed. Almost as cold as Lady Egal’s. The tiny infant in her arms nursed steadily.

  The child had survived the birth. Whatever else happened now, I’d made the right choice to stop Tanoak.

  The guards took positions at either side of the bed and the servant nudged me forward. The child’s birthglow hadn’t dissipated yet—the birth was less than an hour old, then.

  Why would she bring me here so soon?

  Then I saw the glow. The tones were muted, meaning the gift would be weak, but it spread from wrinkled head to tiny, perfect toes. My throat knotted. I’d managed not this-of-arms or that-of-foot, but I’d gifted his entire being.

  And the colors. Muted, yellow, green, red, and white swirled over the newborn. Perception, agility, strength, and endurance. This infant was an All-of-All. A rare feat among chefs. Rarely tried among chefs.

  I’d made an All-of-All. Perhaps I should have tried a little less hard with my cooking.

  But I didn’t mean that, not looking at the so-small child, half the size of other babies I’d helped with. With these gifts, the child would, Ancestors providing, grow old.

  “Why,” Lady Sulat began in a cool tone, “did you not inform the Redwood Palace in your application for a post that you are twice-gifted?”

  I choked. I wasn’t. “I’m... I’m...”

  “Strong-of-Arm and Perceptive-of-Taste, yes, I can see that now,” Lady Sulat continued, her tone firm.

  “Umm.” This wasn’t what I’d expected. Looking at Lady Sulat’s eyes, glossy as pools at midnight, she didn’t believe a word of it, either. Why would she help me? Pretend my lie was one of omission instead of commission?

  “Your father must have been quite talented, to balance sweet and spicy at just the right levels to grant you both gifts. And in a hotpot of... what would it be, for arms and tongue?”

  “Parsnips and morels,” I replied reflexively.

  Her mouth quirked. I should have bumbled the question.

  “My son is healthy, for one born so early. As an All-of-All, I have hope that he will continue strong. You have my thanks for this. Your post as a palace servant will shift from dish scrubber to part of my personal staff, where I may keep an eye on your talents.”

  So she wanted to watch me. Because she didn’t trust me, or because I could be of use? However happy I’d be to skip scrubbing crocks, I’d miss Osem. I ignored the lump in my throat. I was still alive, surprisingly enough. I bowed, grateful. “Thank you.”

  Lady Sulat nodded, then turned to the servant. “Poppy, please return these dishes to the kitchen, then report the change in staff to Lady Egal.”

  Poppy put the empty bowl of custard and a half-empty mug of tea on the tray and swept past me. Something smelled wrong. Ever so faintly, but ever-so-certainly wrong. I caught Poppy by the shoulder. She gave me an odd look—as did Lady Sulat—but I ignored the prickling feeling and picked up the mug. I sniffed, then dipped my finger in the tea and tasted it.

  “Do they not feed you in the kitchens?” Lady Sulat asked.

  “No. I mean yes. What I mean to say, is, Lady Sulat, is that your early delivery shouldn’t have happened. You were poisoned.”

  “Poisoned?”

  “Usually this sweet cranberry tea would give you endurance-of-womb—encouraging a long and healthy pregnancy. But someone slipped soured red raspberry leaf in here. Raspberry leaf targets the womb so intensely I don’t know any chef who’d give it to a healthy pregnant woman, just in case the cooking was off and it had an ill effect. It’s best to use only in emergencies.

  “The soured red raspberry leaf—strength-of-womb—was enough to start contractions. The endurance-of-womb effect from the cranberry guaranteed that those contractions continued until you delivered.” I bit my lip. Had I said too much? I’d created an All-of-All today; analyzing a poison seemed inconsequential in comparison.

  Lady Sulat studied me as she massaged the infant’s back. How could she have such a piercing gaze, yet hold a child with such tenderness? “You’re hiding something. But you didn’t do this to us.”

  I didn’t move. Not even to swallow.

  “Poppy, you may continue taking those to the kitchens. Tell no one.”

  Poppy bowed and glided out the door. Lady Sulat turned her cold gaze back to me. “In the morning, you’ll assume your duties as my poison-taster. For now, Suruc will show you to your room.”

  Poison taster. The king used one, but I didn’t think anyone else in the palace did. The Master Chef tasted nearly everything himself and the servants who delivered meals were trusted members of the Royal Household. Who would risk condemning themselves to a cursed afterlife?

  Not that Lady Sulat didn’t have cause for concern. I bowed, not trusting my voice. Hopefully my palate wouldn’t fail me.
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  My insides roiled. Food was for strengthening the body, for health and longevity. How could someone call themselves a chef, then stand in a kitchen and use their life-giving skills to attack a mother and child?

  I followed Suruc—a man in a black uniform with shoulders a bear would envy—to a room so small it felt like an emptied closet. A single musty mattress lay inside.

  Sleep didn’t come. Not with Suruc breathing outside my door. Standing guard. I was a prisoner, but I didn’t understand the rules of this jail.

  Some time later, footsteps approached. “She’s in there?” a male voice asked.

  “Yes,” Suruc replied.

  “Good. Lady Egal was agreeable and registered the change in the archives. The Palace Guard probably won’t try to take her now, but Lady Sulat wants this door guarded. Someone will relieve you at the next watch.”

  “Understood.”

  I wished I understood, but at least the brief exchange gave me something. Lady Sulat didn’t want the Palace Guard to have me. That must be why she called me quickly, promoted me, and made the change official before anyone else learned about what happened. She’d dubbed me double-gifted. If she hadn’t done all those things, I’d be sitting in a prison cell, awaiting a trial and execution.

  The guard was for my safety, at least partly.

  But why had she done all that? Lady Sulat had no reason to trust me, even if I’d saved her child.

  I couldn’t help but feel that clever Osem would have answers, if I could talk to her.

  Someone left a black skirt, befitting of my station as Lady Sulat’s servant, outside my door. I changed into it, then my guard escorted me to Lady Sulat’s bedside. Next to her rested a tray of sour bone-marrow soup and grilled bean cakes drizzled with sweet cranberry syrup—all good for a recovering mother.

  “Taste. Tell me if there’s anything wrong with it,” Lady Sulat commanded. The baby slept skin-to-skin in a wrap against her chest. Such a tiny infant needed his mother’s warmth.

  I tried the soup first. “Under salted.”

  Lady Sulat raised an eyebrow.