by Keira Drake
“I…how did you find my house?”
“I am long acquainted with Noro Zensuke—I mentioned our meeting when I saw him last, and he suggested that you might need a bit of help.” She looks past me to the sitting room, which is admittedly in a bit of disarray, with soiled clothes on the floor in the corner and the dustbin overflowing at the door to the kitchen. And perhaps a small pile of additional garbage that I wasn’t quite sure where to put.
My face flushes red. “Well…I’ve never really…you see, in the Spire, my family had servants who would tend to the more…menial…tasks. I mean—what I mean to say is—” She has both brows raised and the smallest of smiles on her face. I take a deep breath. “Honestly, Yuki, I have no idea how to manage just about anything in this house.”
She nods. “Can you cook?”
“No.”
“What have you been eating?”
“Mostly bread and cheese.”
“No meat?”
“I wasn’t sure how to…the chickens at the market are alive.”
She laughs, deeply. “Vaela Sun. I would think you hopeless if only you were not so earnest. Come along, let me in. I will teach you.” As she steps inside, she crinkles her nose. “By the stars. Why does it smell like manure in here?”
Thus begins my training in all things domestic. If there is one thing to be learned, it is this: a job, no matter how nauseating, is an easy thing to manage. You wake up, you go to work, you return home. Easy. Keeping one’s own house, however, requires far more effort and responsibility than I could ever have imagined. Not only must one perform the general maintenance and cleaning, which is more complicated than I thought it would be, but daily chores must be managed as well: cooking, tending a vegetable garden, washing and mending clothes, seeing to the dishes—and my least favorite, emptying and cleaning the chamber pot.
Yuki must have thought me hopeless during the first few days of her instruction, as I learned to scrub and sew and cook the most basic of meals. But her patience is eventually rewarded: by the end of the week, I am able to clean the cottage from top to bottom, bake a loaf of bread (dense and chewy, but bread nonetheless), and mend a torn garment (a particularly nice red tunic that was caught on the fence of the cattle pen). And laundry! I can now wash the stink from my clothes and present myself as a human rather than a crumpled, pathetic outworlder.
And so I work and clean, and then, in the hours before bed, I turn my attention to the map. It is a lovely thing, now that I’ve practiced with the quill and have learned not to dribble ink all over the paper. I am alive when I work on the map—it is as though I am connected to something greater than myself. I feel the presence of my parents, I smell the dusty scent of the old books in the Chancellery library, I hear the smooth whir of the trains as they glide over Astor. The map takes me home, where I long to be—where I yet hope to be, when the “anger of the sea” passes and I can be returned to Ivanel. In my heart, I dream that this chart will be a valuable thing for the Aven’ei—that perhaps lives might be saved by it. But for now, I keep it a secret, my secret, my wonderful, intoxicating escape. And when I grow tired, when my eyes are nearly closing with fatigue, I roll it up and tuck it behind the log bin in the sitting room. My perfect, happy little secret.
For now.
One evening after work, I am wrestling with the process of trying to trim a wild thornbush at the front of the house when Noro comes up the lane, returning from his most recent excursion. He’s only been gone half a week, but looks as though he’s spent a year in the outdoors: grime is smeared all over his face and hands, while mud coats his trousers from the knees down. Fatigue is etched into his features, but he smiles when he sees me.
“Bit of gardening on a spring night?” he says. “Oughtn’t you be reclining somewhere in luxury, while servants bring you food and drink?”
“I’ve had to let my servants go, unfortunately. Working for Shoshi does not pay as well as you might think.”
He laughs. “What a shame. You have my condolences.”
I pluck a thorny twig from my plaited hair. “Come and sit for a moment—I need a break, and you look as though you’ve seen the wrong end of a mudslide.”
We settle on the porch, our feet dangling above the grassy cobblestones of the front walk. I sigh heavily. “Whoever knew it could feel so good to sit?”
Noro leans toward me and sniffs. “Not a trace of manure,” he says. “Don’t you work this week?”
“A nameless benefactor gifted me with the loveliest bar of soap ever made.” He looks at his feet and smiles, but says nothing. “How was your…um…assignment?” I say. “It’s good to see you back safe.”
“Quick,” he says. “Without complications.”
“That’s nice,” I say, trying not to wonder where he has been and what he has done. Who, when, why, how many? Did he dispatch his prey with knives, or does he kill in different ways? It is a strange thing to sit next to an assassin, talking about soap and other trivialities. “Glad to be home?”
“Always,” he says, then glances at me. “You seem well, girl. Very…accomplished.”
“Yes, well, Yuki Sanzo has seen fit to teach me many practical skills over the past few days—thank you for that, by the way. She said it was your idea.”
He nods. “She’s an old friend. And a fearsome warrior.”
A twinge of something, some strange insecure thing, flickers in my stomach. I could be fearsome, too, I think to myself, which is absurd. I have no interest in violence, and no aptitude besides. Still, the note of admiration in Noro’s voice when he speaks of Yuki’s prowess leaves me in a bit of a mood.
“I wonder,” I say, eager to change the subject, “if I might make a few suggestions to the council in regard to improvements for the village?”
Noro frowns. “What sort of improvements?”
“Well…technological things. There’s one item in particular I would love to see the Aven’ei adopt. I thought I could explain its function, and your engineers could see to the manufacture.”
“Our engineers are quite occupied in the building and maintaining of defenses,” he replies. “But I’m curious—what is this thing you feel would benefit the people so much?”
“Well—it pertains to a matter of convenience, really. I suppose some might call it a luxury. But really, it’s quite practical, and—”
“What is it?”
I hesitate, a bit embarrassed now that I’ve come to the point of explaining. “It’s…it’s a toilet.” He shakes his head, eyes blank. “It’s sort of like a chamber pot,” I continue, “only it stays permanently in the washroom—you never have to empty it at all!”
“That,” he says, leaning away from me slightly, “is disgusting.”
“What’s disgusting about it?”
“You would keep urine and excrement in the house? Permanently?”
I laugh. “No! No! That’s the beauty of the toilet! It empties itself! The…everything just washes away. There’s no odor, nothing to empty—just comfort and convenience.”
He looks at me critically. “Where does the material go?”
“Down into the pipes, of course!”
“What pipes?”
I realize that I may have gotten a bit ahead of myself, having forgotten about the matter of plumbing.
“Come inside,” I say. “I’ll draw you a picture.”
In the house, I retrieve a pencil and a sheet of paper from the cabinet beside the sofa, and gesture for Noro to join me at the kitchen table. I position my pencil, ready to illustrate—then realize I have absolutely no understanding as to the actual mechanics of the thing. Undeterred, I begin to sketch out a commode.
“There’s water in the basin, you see,” I say, “and a handle here—this empties the contents into the pipes below—” I draw in a vague pipe that looks to end somewhere beneath the front door “—and then the bowl fills automatically with water once again.”
Noro is looking at me as though I’m insane. “Where doe
s the water come from?”
“From additional pipes, of course!”
“And where do the pipes get the water?”
“I—I don’t really know. But I assure you, it’s all very sanitary, and if we could get toilets installed, there’d never be the need to empty a pot in the cold of winter!”
He scrutinizes the drawing, then gives me a piteous sort of smile. “Well. It’s very interesting.”
“Do you think the council might be inclined?”
“Ah. No.”
My shoulders slump. “But why ever not?”
“I’m sorry. I know you are accustomed to your… conveniences. But frankly…” He picks up the drawing and shakes his head, then looks at me directly. “A privy inside the house, girl? That is disgusting.”
CHAPTER 18
THERE MUST BE A WAY TO PLEASE SHOSHI KAKEN.
This was the thought that governed my mind as I began my second month of work, as I shoveled and toiled and smiled through my own stink and sweat out in the field. There must be a way. He is a man like any other. A person.
Last week, I spent half an afternoon in the kitchen making an incredible sweetened pastry—a light and golden thing drizzled with honey (Yuki did most of the work, but I helped). When I brought Shoshi the package, he opened it and said, “No.”
No.
Not No, thank you, or I appreciate this kind gesture, Vaela Sun, but I prefer savory foods, or Aren’t you a sweet girl? Perhaps I have misjudged you all along!
Just No. He closed the bag, returned it, and ignored me until I left his office. My fine dessert went to waste, sitting out in the sun while I filled my wheelbarrow with manure and tried to figure out what, exactly, had gone wrong. I decided I would redouble my efforts—perhaps working longer hours would please him. It might demonstrate my commitment to the farm, after all.
Although…commitment is a difficult thing to prove, and mine was slightly undermined when I struck a charging bull in the face with a shovel. It had loped into the pen unannounced, and got up to quite a trot once it saw me. I did not know what to do—two thousand pounds of muscle with nasty-looking horns was coming at me so quickly, and I just…I jumped out of the way and swung the shovel with all my might. I watched in horror and relief as its knees buckled—for one long, terrible moment, I feared that I had killed it, but the bull promptly got back up. I hightailed it over the fence only to run smack into Shoshi and receive an earful of what I assume was a long string of Aven’ei profanity.
I stayed late into the afternoon for the next two days, lending a hand to the other workers wherever I could make myself useful. On the third day, Shoshi stopped me as I was leaving.
“Don’t think you’re going to get any more oka out of me. You’ll have two a week, whether you stay six hours or ten. Stay all day long if you please. But it’s two oka, and not a tuka more.”
“I don’t expect extra pay,” I said. “I just wanted to help.”
“I already see your face more than I please,” he said. “Next time you work, go home when you’re scheduled to leave.”
He is a person, I thought to myself, though the words felt a bit empty. Knowing that someone resents your actual face takes some of the fun out of trying to make him happy. But, that night, my enthusiasm was renewed, for I finally discovered it: The Thing That Would Please Him.
I’ve learned in my time here that the Aven’ei are very fond of repurposed Topi weaponry—that is, weapons confiscated during capture or battle that have been remade to suit Aven’ei standards. These are a bit like trophies, I think, and many of the broadswords and other weapons I see in the village have traces of Topi paint, or bone handles, or something to signify their origin. Even the children collect them: clubs and bows and such (adult Aven’ei archers won’t touch a Topi bow; the Aven’ei design is purported to be vastly superior).
In the marketplace after work, I saw an exciting thing: a short Topi dagger with a wide blade and a handle of bone—and it cost only a single oka! I’d never seen a weapon priced so low. Noro doesn’t go in for Topi weaponry (I think he is impervious to fads of any kind), but Shoshi does. Every sword I’ve seen him carry—and he owns several—is a remade Topi artifact.
I didn’t hesitate when I saw how inexpensive it was; I purchased it from the grinning old proprietor and took it straight home, where I set the blade on the mantel and admired it all night. This was the ticket.
The following morning, I made my way to the farm with a spring in my step, the little knife like a stone in my pocket. I did not go straight to Shoshi’s office as I had with the pastry; I thought I would affect a more casual air about things, so as not to make it seem like a grand gesture. My thinking was that he would be more receptive if the gift was not given formally.
I waited until early afternoon for Shoshi to emerge from his offices, and called him over.
“What is it?” he asked. “Trouble with the wheelbarrow again?”
“Oh, no, I’ve got that well in hand nowadays. I actually have something for you.”
His eyes narrowed. “Not another sweet, I hope?”
“No, no.” My heart thrummed in my chest. “But I did bring you a little something. Nothing of consequence, just something that made me think of you when I saw it.”
I produced the knife from my pocket and held it out for him. He took the dagger and inspected it carefully, turning it several times in his palm. Then he looked up at me. “How did you come to acquire this object?”
“I saw it in the marketplace.”
“And you purchased it?”
“It was inexpensive,” I said, waving a hand. “Just a trifle, really.”
“I should think so,” Shoshi said. “It’s a fake.”
My mouth fell open. “It’s…what?”
He ran a finger along the haft. “This handle has been applied in many pieces. The Topi use larger segments of bone to enforce the sturdiness of the weapon. The knife is a fake, made to look as a Topi piece, but obviously made by Aven’ei hands—and clumsy ones, at that.”
“Oh,” I said, a rush of embarrassment coloring my cheeks. “Well. Oh.”
“How much did you pay for this?”
“One oka,” I admitted. Half a week’s pay. “I thought it was a special bargain.”
“Indeed it was,” Shoshi said. “All sales final, I suppose?”
I nodded. I felt like an idiot. But Shoshi put the knife in the pouch at his waist and said, “Be more careful. If it seems too good a price, it probably is.”
The following morning, Shoshi cursed at me and flung a rock at my wheelbarrow when I stumbled in the mud. And so the week went on in its usual manner, my failed gesture of goodwill having been shoveled away like so much manure. But at the end of the week, when it was time for me to collect my pay, Shoshi pushed three oka toward me.
“You’ve miscounted,” I said, taking two of the coins and leaving the third on the table.
“I’ve miscounted nothing. I retrieved your money from the marketplace, and added it to your wages.”
“You…” My eyes fell to the dull silver oka on the table—a small fortune, spent, lost, and now mine again. Gingerly, I picked it up, my heart moved by this small kindness. “That was thoughtful. I appreciate it.”
Shoshi, never one to miss an opportunity to blacken a moment, looked at me directly. “Mind your purchases from now on, Vaela Sun. You really are a very stupid girl.”
I am not a stupid girl, I think to myself two nights later, as I host my first ever dinner party. Noro, Yuki, and Takashi—Noro’s friend who patrols the village gate, the one who admitted us when we arrived—are gathered around my table, laughing, talking, happy. I am not a stupid girl at all. I am a happy one. An accomplished, hard-working, self-sufficient young woman with a full month’s wages in a satchel beneath my bed. I am, quite frankly, a bit amazing.
Hmm. I may also be slightly drunk. Yuki brought wine, and she has been liberal with it all evening. But the most important thing about Yuki is that sh
e does not flirt with Noro. This has endeared her to me more deeply than ever. Not that I wish to flirt with Noro. That would be unbecoming, and in any case, he is merely my friend. But I don’t want Yuki to do it either.
“More wine?” she says, grinning, her eyes bright and glassy in the lamplight. She doesn’t wait for me to answer, but rather pours another two inches of glimmering red liquid into my glass.
Takashi’s cheeks are two pink roses; he’s had even more to drink than I. Which means…three glasses? Four? I’m not certain. He has turned out to be a very friendly young man, now that he doesn’t suspect me of being a Topi.
“More for me, please,” he says, holding his cup high in the air. “It’s a long while since I’ve had wine this good.”
Yuki beams. “It’s from Kojima, up near Sana-Zo—do you know it? The vintner is incredible. He and his wife work alternate weeks to ensure that the yield is perfect every year.”
Takashi opens his mouth, but Yuki clamps a hand over it. “Do not sing. I’ve heard you warbling up on the wall, friend, and I’m not like to endure it again.”
His brow furrows. “How did you know I was about to—”
“You just have the look,” Yuki says. “So don’t.”
Takashi turns to Noro with wide eyes. “Do you believe this girl?”
Noro gives him a faint smile. “I believe I once heard you sing, Takashi, and it was not a happy experience.”
Takashi presses his lips together, then says to me, “I may not trill like a bird, Vaela Sun, but I have music in my heart.”
“Leave it there,” Yuki says, and all of us laugh, including Takashi.
I rub my fingertip along the rim of my glass, feeling happy, warm, and relaxed. “I’m so glad you all could come tonight. I only hope the dinner was all right.”
Awkward glances are exchanged all around the table.