by M K Hutchins
I laughed, my unpracticed lungs creaking. “No. Nothing of the sort, Bane. That’s the first thing you think of—me, a spy?”
“You can forage mushrooms and travel without an amber chip from Meadowind to Askan-Wod. Why should I think you incapable of anything? Two weeks from now, I expect to see you walking around happily on your own two feet, understand?” He said it in a mock-scolding tone, but concern shot through every syllable.
“Bane. Honestly, I don’t know how to escape this trial.”
“I’m going to keep hoping that saying so is all part of your master plan to escape.” He walked a touch closer now, his buckwheat-brown eyes searching mine. He still smelled of juniper with a hint of smoke.
I considered him for a long moment. “If you’re willing... I may need your help, Bane.”
“Whatever you need.” He said those words like he meant them. He halted and waited, silent, for orders—like a soldier before battle.
Somehow we’d ended up in the plum orchard again. Fallen blossoms speckled the grass and leave were unfurling on the trees. “Why are you so eager to help me?”
A warm smile spread across his broad face. “Why shouldn’t I? I’ve sworn to protect Rowak. Every man, woman, and child inside these borders is Rowak. You are Rowak.”
Quiet respect burned in me. I didn’t know if Lady Sulat wanted me dead or alive, but she’d looked past Bane’s missing arm, saw his dedication, and gave him a post. Somehow, that was reassuring.
“It’d be reckless to talk about this in an open garden,” I said. We made our way to the springball courts, where we sat with an ivy-covered wall at our backs. We leaned close together as I whispered what I suspected about Fir and Blue Lord Torut.
A line creased between his eyes. “Why didn’t you say you’re twice-gifted in your application?”
I hadn’t concocted an answer for that, yet.
“Have you sent for your parents? Could they help you with the trial?”
“No.” I wished I could see their faces and talk to them. But what good would that do? They’d probably end up on trial themselves. If I couldn’t invent anything better, I’d stick with the story about being a street urchin who stole Dami’s papers for herself. I’d still hang and my parents would still owe back-taxes, but at least they’d keep on living.
Bane peered at me. “You’re that embarrassed about being double-gifted?”
“Embarrassed...” I echoed. What an excellent lie—that I wanted to serve humbly, without drawing attention to myself. Bane was brilliant.
“When we skipped rocks, it seemed odd you accused me of being double-gifted, like that was a bad thing. Why would you be ashamed of starting life so well?”
“That wasn’t it at all! What you did with those rocks looked surreal. I thought you must possess some other gift, because I couldn’t imagine skipping a rock with a hundred years of practice.”
Bane leaned his head back against the wall, staring up at the clear spring sky. “That was a nice afternoon.”
“Yes.” I leaned back too, soaking in the sky’s color, that forget-me-not shade that only seemed to come this time of year. We ought to be sitting further apart, but I didn’t want to move. I wished I had a century of clear afternoons like this before me, instead of eleven days. “Maybe the King will be lenient after the Council proclaims me guilty.”
Bane gave me a pitying look. “Maybe you should tell me what you need help with, because appealing to the King’s lenience won’t be enough.”
“I’m trying to find the poisoner—do you think that will work?” I asked.
He looked down at the grass where our hands rested a space apart. “I hope so. The Council might take pity and name you innocent, despite the evidence.”
I exhaled. “What I need is a way to spy on Blue Lord Torut.”
“Moss is right on this one. Lord Torut goes into Askan-Wod all the time to drink and gamble. He likes being unimportant.”
“Or he’s good at pretending.” Just like Fir. I chewed my lip. “Do you know when, exactly, he goes into the city?”
“No, but Nisaat, my cousin, always watches the gate for Lady Egal. She could tell me the next time he leaves.”
“Have her tell me. I won’t let you get in trouble over this.”
He looked so serious, despite the hair hanging over his eyes. “I told you I want to help.”
“I’m going to have a trial anyway. I don’t want you to risk one, too.”
He pursed his lips, an argument in his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Bane sighed and nodded at the springball court. “Would you like to play?”
“Now?”
“Just sitting here isn’t making you morose? Maybe a little relaxation will help us both think better. Besides, Blue Lord Torut never leaves before nightfall. I’ll talk with Nisaat before then.”
I looked down the length of the court, rimmed with an ankle-high wall of pale yellow bricks. Dami excelled at springball, not me. “There’s only two of us.”
Bane grinned. “While I’d love to play as partners, I’m willing to play person against person. You hardly seem at a disadvantage, Dami, strong-of-arm.”
I wished Dami had been born nothing-of-nothing. But I couldn’t dash Bane’s smile. “Fine.”
He fetched the equipment—the springball, a set of two acorn squash-sized sandbags, and four fist-sized balls in both yellow and green.
I took yellow so I wouldn’t have to go first. Bane placed the springball in the center of the far side of the court, then jogged back to me. He stood behind the foul line and lofted a sandbag in a graceful arch, landing it near the springball. Having one arm didn’t seem to affect his playing in the least. “Your turn.”
I hefted a sandbag—it weighed about the same as a medium crock. Men usually played the bags and women rolled the balls. I glanced around once, but saw no other couple to join us.
I’d made a lie of omission and now Bane would know my lie of commission. I tossed the bag as hard as I could, hoping to get it at least half-way down the court.
It landed just out-of-bounds past the far end of the playing area.
Bane smiled. “That’s often a problem with strong-of-arm players. Since you’ve never thrown bags before, I’d be happy to let you try again.”
I mumbled a thank-you and Bane jogged to retrieve it before I could start down the court myself. I flexed my arms and wiggled my fingers while his back was turned.
More than a month of scrubbing crocks had made me stronger, even if I’d never lift a table one-handed like Dami. Maybe Bane was right. Maybe I could foil the courts and come out of this with my head.
My next throw fell short, but inside the legal playing area. Once we finished with the bags, we rolled the balls down the playing area, banking them off the walls. Bane placed his well enough, but I used my last roll to knock the springball into one of my bags.
“Shall we go score it?”
I strolled next to him. In the final evaluation, I had a sandbag and one of my balls closer to the springball than his best placement, so I scored two.
“How high do you want to play to? Ten?” Bane asked—a standard goal.
If I had to wait to spy, I couldn’t think of a nicer way to pass the afternoon than playing springball with the perfume of columbines wafting in over the wall.
All said, I won, ten to eight. Bane graciously praised my skill as we put the equipment away. A little too graciously. I peered at him. “You let me win, didn’t you?”
Bane rubbed his ear. “Hmm?”
I gave him the hard stare I usually reserved for children who wouldn’t eat their food.
“Nisaat says I should always go easy on opponents on their first game, or there won’t be a second. Honestly, I played very nearly at my best.”
He looked adorably guilty. “Very nearly?” I asked, still using my chef voice. I wasn’t about to let him off so easily.
“You’d never tossed before. It wasn’t a fair match to begin with.”
&nbs
p; I raised a critical eyebrow.
Bane squirmed. “Are you going to argue that being strong-of-arm is a great advantage? I have the same birthgift, so it’s hardly a difference between us, and it only made you overthrow your first toss. Really, in springball and in the military, being strong-of-arm isn’t everything. In fact, when it comes to being a soldier, I’d rather be endurance-of-back.”
He left that unusual statement hanging without explanation—a desperate attempt to change the topic of conversation. Given that his cheeks might set the rest of him on fire if he became any more flustered, I forgave him and followed his diversion. “Why endurance-of-back?”
Bane exhaled. He was no Lady Sulat—he wore his emotions too honestly on his face. “Let’s say you’ve been marching all day with a pack pulling on you—your food, your weapons, your water. Maybe it’s been raining, adding to the weight. And, without resting, you now have to ambush somebody. What gift would you rather have?”
“Strong-of-arm still seems like a good idea.”
“Being strong only helps if you’re not falling over. Endurance-of-back soldiers always fight fresh. You should have seen the way they moved. I wouldn’t mind being agile-of-arm, either. Placing a strike just so... that’s more important than pure force.”
“You’ve thought about this a lot,” I said, impressed.
He gave a modest shrug. “I always wanted to seem like an All-of-All, so I trained like I was one. I can’t tell you how many times I loosed a bow as a boy, though I knew, given my birthgift, I’d be fighting with the spear.”
And now he’d never nock an arrow again. “You wanted to be in the military that long?”
I wondered how long Dami wanted to join the military before she ran off. A day? Ten years? Wherever she was in this war, I hoped she was safe.
“I apologize. I’m getting carried away, rambling about personal things.”
“No apology necessary. Go on,” I encouraged him. “If you want to, that is. I’d like to listen.”
He considered me for a moment. When he continued, his voice was soft. “I’m from a military family. My grandfather earned himself Yellow-rank for his heroism and we’ve all followed his legacy.” He itched his stump with his good hand. “I woke before dawn to practice, even when I was little, so that when it came time to prove myself, I could earn Green-rank to honor him.”
“I’m... sorry.” I didn’t know what to say.
“I’m getting used to having one arm... but I don’t suppose you can imagine what it’s like to train for something your whole life. To know your purpose, your destiny, and then have years of sweat and work snatched away from you in a single moment. I’ve spent the past three years trying to figure out who I am—just me—without a useful birthgift attached.” He laughed at himself. “I sound half-crazy, don’t I?”
My throat thickened. I looked down at the knife-scars on my hands—the result of uncounted hours in the kitchen. I ached to make a compote, a broth, anything. My voice came out husky. “You don’t sound crazy at all.”
A garden had laid siege to Lady Sulat’s apartments. Flowers sat in vases on the floor. Flowers hung from the windows. Flowers trailed over the wooden dresser. But I saw no supper for me to taste.
Lady Sulat didn’t look up. She held the newborn in one arm and a small girl, maybe three years old, against her other side. That would be her oldest—Blue-ranked Azalea—according to the genealogies I’d read today. The girl spoke quietly and touched her brother’s toes. Lady Sulat’s blank oval of a face softened into something motherly.
“What are all the flowers for?” I whispered to Moss.
“Congratulations on the birth, from her brave sons.”
I peered at him. He wanted me to believe the premature infant picked these?
“Ah, from the soldiers. We’re her brave sons.” Adoration glowed in his voice as he glanced at Lady Sulat.
Maybe she was hard, but if the greenery was any evidence, her soldiers cared for her. Her daughter and Purple Lord Valerian adored her, too.
I stood in the corner watching the happy family. I saw no sign that Lady Sulat’s and her newborn’s lives had been endangered three days ago. No hint that the father wasn’t around the corner, but on the frontlines.
I shifted on my feet. Should I leave and give them some privacy, since I had nothing to taste?
The door-guard let Poppy in. She bowed elegantly, keeping the tray in her hands level. “I apologize, Lady Sulat, for the lateness. A new chef has been called in for Hawak’s absence. He just arrived and insisted on adjusting the seasoning of your dishes before they left the kitchens.”
I strode forward. The simple soup of stinging nettles and green garlic was divine—a hint of sour from the parsley, a touch of sweet carrot in the broth, plus the bright spiciness of the garlic. Nettles targeted the breast and would help Lady Sulat’s milk supply. Hard-boiled eggs with a nuanced dipping salt—flecked with juniper and maple sugar—accompanied it. There were buckwheat branches as well to soak in the soup, but that was standard, chewy apprentice fare. The new chef hadn’t arrived in time to improve them. “It’s all safe. The soup is quite good.”
Poppy situated Lady Sulat with the nettle soup, then gave Azalea an egg and a branch. The girl cupped the egg in both hands and nibbled away, ignoring the dipping salt.
Lady Sulat took a few spoonfuls of soup, then a long sip of her tea. “Poppy. Who is the new chef?”
“You probably know his father, Green-ranked Yarrow, a former Master Chef, but this young man’s name is Sorrel of Westbank.”
Sorrel. He could cook as well as I’d dreamed he could. I choked back a sob.
Poppy’s eyes widened and she snatched the branch back from Azalea. “You’re ill?”
My cheeks heated. “No. The food’s not poisoned. I...”
Lady Sulat stared at me, soaking up the details in my face. She knew Sorrel’s name meant something to me, and that left me feeling naked.
My pulse fluttered wildly. I swallowed hard. “Might I be excused?”
Lady Sulat nodded, her cold eyes prickling the back of my neck as I hurried into the sitting room. Poppy had replaced the rugs we’d beaten clean that morning, but the furniture still lay out of place. Moss reclined on the most comfortable chair. I shuffled the other chairs and end tables back to their places, trying to think.
I couldn’t simply burst into the kitchens on no particular errand. But I ached to. I needed to know his face. Hear his voice.
I wanted to tell him my real name.
“That vase is still off-center, you know,” Moss said, jutting his chin at an end table.
I ignored him and chewed my lip, heart pounding. I gave up all pretense of moving chairs and paced. Sorrel. Here.
No, I couldn’t risk telling Sorrel who I was. But maybe, given a chance to meet me, he’d want to marry me anyway. If I survived the trial, I could have my perfect life back.
Moss folded his hands behind his head and lounged in the chair. “I don’t know why you bothered to clean the rugs if you’re just going to wear holes in them.”
I volunteered to take Lady Sulat’s tray back to the kitchens. Poppy happily conceded the task. Lady Sulat had fallen asleep, so I didn’t have to endure her stare—though I had the nagging feeling she’d know about my excursion, anyway.
Moss followed, humming loudly and off-key. The bolas dangled from his belt, clacking.
I cracked the kitchen door and edged inside. The only person I didn’t recognize stood with one of the apprentices over a bowl of rutabaga soup. He had to be Sorrel. He was of average height with a thin nose, but he held himself as confident as a king. In the kitchen, I supposed he was just that.
“You haven’t tasted it since you poured it from the crock?” Sorrel asked the apprentice.
“I did, um, season it before it started cooking.”
Sorrel grinned, dark eyes glittering like precious hematite. “Ah, but you must always taste again, after it’s cooked. Do you know why?”
Sorrel spoke kindly, his words alive with passion. “Raw rutabagas aren’t particularly sweet, but cooked... here, try a spoonful.”
The apprentice took it. His eyes lit up. “You’re right! The balance is off!”
“It’s important to taste while you’re cooking, or the dish might be unsalvageable. But always, always test a dish when it’s finished, too.”
The apprentice rubbed the back of his neck. “Chef Hawak said something like that, but I didn’t understand why.”
“Do you know how to fix it?”
Sour. I almost said it aloud.
“Not salt. That would be overpowering. Not spicy. So... sour?”
“Exactly right! Some parsley should do the trick.”
My face flushed. My pulse raced. This man. I could have married this kind confectionary of a chef. I wanted to say something. Ancestors forgive me, I wanted to drop the tray, grasp his hand, and beg his forgiveness that I hadn’t been a selfish daughter like the real Dami and abandoned my parents to pick up the pieces of her mistakes.
I wanted to ask him his theory on methods of broth-making. Or custards. Or if he preferred juniper or rosehip in his elk braises.
He turned toward me and beamed. I stopped breathing. He spoke. “Ah, my love. I’m so pleased to see you! Are you well?”
That’s when I knew I’d already been executed. This was all a marvelous dream. A paradise where we’d spend the rest of eternity debating the proper way to make dumplings and feeding each other strawberries.
“Of course! I just miss you,” said a voice behind me. I’d been too busy ogling Sorrel to notice her approach.
Her hair shone as lustrous as Dami’s. Except, unlike Dami, she’d never fool anyone into thinking she was a boy, no matter how heavy the jacket. She flaunted her curves as she sauntered to him.
Sorrel embraced her tightly. One of the apprentices whistled. My innards turned to moldy leftovers. He ought to be holding me like that.
“She is my betrothed. Such a gesture hardly merits whistling,” Sorrel said, one part embarrassed, one part grin.