Deeds of Honor (5 page)

And it didn't. Efla, bent, gasped as she tried to push herself up straight. From the corner of her eye, Farin caught a movement in the dark passage beyond the kitchen. One of
them
, that would be. Probably Lady Verrakai, come to spy.

"Stand up," Farin said, her voice deliberately harsh. "What were you doing in the kitchen alone, this late? Meeting someone?"

"N-no, Cook. I-I wasn't. I-I-I—"

"That stableboy I've seen making eyes at you? One of the grooms? The bootboy? Gardener's lad? What did I tell you, girl, about flaunting yourself—"

"I didn't! It wasn't that—he—"

"Quiet! You don't fool me—"

"Is there a problem, Cook?" Lady Verrakai, the duke's own wife, slid into the kitchen like oil down the side of a bowl. Her voice seemed gentle, even sweet, but Farin knew well what lurked within. Magelady. Worse than that, sworn to the Bloodlord, Liart. Just like the rest of them, man and woman and child: eager to hurt, useless to heal.

"Milady," Farin said, dipping a courtesy. Efla, she saw, had at least the sense to do the same. "'Tis only one of the assistant cooks. Coming to that age, milady, and—"

"I see..." Lady Verrakai came nearer; Farin's skin crawled. She stood still, knowing better than to flinch; the lady passed her by and came to Efla. Farin closed her eyes a moment, wishing she had more gods to pray to, gods with real power, to give the girl answers that would not end with her in those cells beneath the tower for the last agonizing days of her life. She sent a prayer to Alyanya, Lady of Peace, anyway, even though her parrion was the only gift Alyanya had given her.

Lady Verrakai reached out and touched the bruises on Efla's face; the girl trembled. "Does that hurt you?" Lady Verrakai said, her hand now clasping Efla's chin, forcing her into the fingers that probed the bruises. "Surely, child, you erred, to be punished so."

Efla shook like a bush in the wind, too terrified to answer.

"And you cannot tell me who? Or why? Was it Cook here?"

Efla shook her head.

"Well...you must be more diligent, child, and more obedient, lest worse come to you. We do not tolerate ill discipline in this house, as Cook was, perhaps, telling you." The glance she aimed at Farin held a threat sharp as a sword.

"Yes, milady," Farin said, with another dip of the legs. "She is a hard worker, milady, and may make a cook in time."

"Keep her in order, then, Cook, and I will not need to share this with the duke. Let her be quiet and...submissive...and we'll hear no more about it. If she suits you as a helper..."

"Yes, milady, she does. But like all younglings, needs a wallop now and then."

Lady Verrakai's smile was knowing. "So do all, Cook, now and then. Even...even those not so young, now and then."

Farin felt cold grip her, the lady's malice, her potent magery. Lady Verrakai came nearer, nearer; Farin could not move. The lady's smile now would have chilled anyone, she thought. One slim hand, decked with rings, rose and stroked Farin's hair gently, slid down to her ear...and hard nails dug in.

"Did I not command you always to wear a cap over your hair in this kitchen? Always?"

"Yes, milady." This one time she had hurried from her bed, hearing a noise in the kitchen...

"You have no cap on." This in a tone of mock surprise. "And I thought you a careful and obedient servant. Instead...in the kitchen without a cap. Disobedient. Sly. Whatever shall I do with you?"

"Whatever milady wishes," Farin said, when the lady allowed speech.

"Very true." Lady Verrakai leaned back a little, still digging her fingernail into Farin's ear, tugging. Farin felt the magery wrap her throat again, silencing her. "And what I wish..." A deliberate, long-drawn pause. "Is this." She leaned close again, and with her other hand grabbed a lock of Farin's hair, yanking it from her head. She threw it on the floor. Another. Another. Farin's eyes watered at the pain. Then Lady Verrakai let go, hands and magery both. Farin drew a shuddering breath.

Lady Verrakai gave Efla a hard look. "Watch and learn, girl, what happens to those who disobey me! Stand there and do not move or speak. Cook—the floor of this kitchen is filthy...there is
hair
on the floor!
Animal
hair. Get down on the floor and pick it up, every single hair, one by one, and hand each one to me."

Farin dropped to her knees. Lady Verrakai's voice had changed; this was going to be bad. She hoped Efla was too frightened to disobey or they might both die this night. A sharp kick behind threw her forward onto her hands and almost her face.

"One by one I said."

Farin could not see the hairs; it was too dark. She felt one, got it between her fingers, and started to rise to her knees; another kick knocked her down. "I said down."

When Lady Verrakai finally stopped, it was almost time to start the bread for breakfast, and Farin had been crawling the floor all night, handing her own hairs one by one to Lady Verrakai...for whatever magery the woman chose to inflict on her. Hair and nails and bits of skin...all could be used by the magelords to inflict more damage. And she had taken damage already this night. Kicks and blows, some with a hand, some with the rolling pin, some with the broom, left her with bruises all over. Blood from her scalp had dried, but that was not the only blood.

At the end, Lady Verrakai made her kneel beside the table, where the lady could grip her cheeks with both hands, thumbs threateningly close to her eyes, and deliver her final speech.

"This is not
your
kitchen, Farin Cook, despite what you think to yourself. This is
my
kitchen. You are nothing but a serf. No more clumsy attempts to protect girls like this; I know what you've done and I will not allow it. You, this girl, every girl and boy and man and woman in this house...you are no more than two-legged animals, just as much the duke's and mine as the horses and dogs. You will serve us, and obey us, and
please
us...or you will be the Bloodlord's sacrifice. If I choose, I can strip this girl naked and have her taken by every man in the household, in plain sight of all...do you understand me?"

"Yes, milady."

The thumbs slid closer to her eyes. "And if I choose, I can blind you, Farin Cook, and have you whipped around the house, stumbling and falling into every wall, bitten by the dogs, trampled by horses, and hang you upside down over the stable gate until you die...do you understand
that
?"

"Yes, milady." Her voice shook in spite of herself, and the lady's smile was amused.

"Yes, now I think you do," she said. "Kiss my feet," she said, and Farin bent and kissed the lady's feet, and accepted without complaint more blows on her back as she did so, a final kick to the head, and then it was over. The lady stood, walked out the door, said, "Good morrow, Farin; I look forward to your excellent hot rolls at breakfast."

Farin thought of curses but dared not utter them; mages had ears like cats, alert to the faintest sound. She levered herself up, joint by painful joint. Every part of her body hurt, joints and muscles and skin alike, and work today—with no sleep before it—would be hard.
Life
was hard; nothing to do but live it. The lamp burned dimly, but she could see Efla, pale and stiff, hands rigid at her side.

"We must wash and dress properly," she said to Efla, keeping her voice level and low. "We must be clean as always, we must have on our proper clothes and our slippers and our caps on straight and we must have everything in order and breakfast ready on time. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Cook," the girl said. "But...you're hurt. She kicked—"

"She is the Lady Verrakai, and we are her servants," Farin said. "Come now, quickly. I will pour the bucket for you, and you will for me."

She heard a cock crow outside. Time indeed. "Hurry," she said. "The others will be coming."

Water had never been so cold, and Efla, shivering, started whimpering again when she saw Farin's bruises, much worse than her own. Farin knew better than to look at herself. She tried not to see Efla's, the blood that streaked the girl's thighs. "What you don't see don't hurt so bad," her father had said. She knew that to be true. She said that to Efla, who just stared, mouth open and tears running down her face. Drat the girl; why did she have to make it harder?

She got them both washed and dressed and back in the kitchen, thin cloth slippers on their feet, neat caps on their heads. The oven was hot enough; the dough had risen properly overnight. When the other kitchen help arrived from the servants' loft, Farin hoped all they saw was their Cook, always an early riser, and Efla. She herself had pounded the dough down, rolled it, and given part to Efla to make into the round everyday loaves, while she buttered and spread jam, and then twisted smaller bits into the fancy shaped breakfast rolls. Flour dust covered the bruises on her fingers.

"Put the porridge on," she ordered the first in, and "Mend the fire," to the next. Morning went on as it always did; by the time the steward reported that family were on their way down, she had all ready as usual: the stirred eggs, the cheeses sliced and laid out on a platter, the baked and fried meats, and the breakfast rolls piled in a heavy pottery bowl to keep them warm, wrapped in a cloth with the Verrakai crest. Servants carried the food away; dairy maids arrived with the morning milk and eggs.

None dared take a bite for themselves until after the dishes came back from the dining room and were clean, dried, and properly stacked. Only the porridge pot was left, and the meager leftover went into a kitchen bowl, out of which each ate in turn, sharing the spoon. Not even a drop of honey or jam could be taken to season it; all were still hungry when it was finished, the bowl and pot clean and ready for the next meal.

Farin counted herself lucky that nothing more disturbed the day; she cooked, and supervised the others, and made sure that every detail of the kitchen ran exactly as it should. Lady Verrakai did not appear. Only the steward, as they were cleaning up after the second meal. He said nothing about Efla's bruised face, the darkening bruises on her own face and arms; he gave her the orders for the evening meal and went on his way.

She slept that night in the servants' bath house, dank and chill as it was, for she did not feel safe in either of her usual places. Cold and pain kept rousing her, so she hardly slept. Thus she heard the clatter of a rider arriving fast, sometime after the turn of night. Voices in the stableyard, then several sets of boots went in through the kitchen entrance. Shortly, the great bell rang, rousing the household.

Farin got up, wincing, raked her hair back, put on her cap and slippers, and hurried into the kitchen. Through the door she could see lamplight in the passage. Quickly she touched spills to the fireplace coals and lit the kitchen lamps. Whatever it was, food would be needed...

The steward put his head in the door. "Cook! A hot meal for the family, at once. Travel rations for forty—"

Something big had happened. What could it be? Forty people leaving the household? All the family? She could hope for that. She pulled all the eggs out of the cool pantry: not enough, but they would have to do. She could extend them—milk, cream, onions...they still had a basket of dried mushrooms...there was the ham in the meat pantry...

By the time two of the kitchen maids had stumbled sleepily into the kitchen, Farin had both frying pans hot on the fire, onions sizzling in them, one of the dough bowls with twenty eggs and two measures of milk beaten to a froth, and the dried mushrooms soaking. "Chop those mushrooms," she said to Efla. "No bigger than your thumb end." To the other "A slice off the ham, cut it in strips the width of your little finger. Then a fat slice off that wedge of older cheese and grate it."

"Should I put the dough in the oven now I'm done with the mushrooms?" asked Efla.

"It's not risen enough, most like. I'll check." She took the mushrooms Efla had chopped and tossed half in each frying pan. Then the ham, and then, finally the egg and milk mixture. "Shake these around, Efla, while I check the dough. Put some salt in, not too much. Don't let them burn on the bottom."

She checked the bread dough—close enough—punched it down and made medium-sized everyday loaves, small enough to bake quickly, putting them straight into the oven, then checked Efla's handling of the stirred eggs. She blinked, seeing little green spots...

"I put them herbs in, like you use," Efla said. "T'ones milady likes."

Farin sniffed. The right herbs and the right amount. She hadn't thought Efla was that advanced. Perhaps the girl had a parrion after all. "Good," she said. "Now go help Maia and Jaim slice meat for the meat platter, and I'll finish these." She reached for the dish of grated cheese, intending to melt it on top of the eggs, and had just sprinkled it on top when she heard more noise. Spurred boots clattering and jingling on the stairs, raised voices, men's and women's both.

Farin piled platters with the egg mixture, scattering more grated cheese on top—no time to melt it in the oven as she'd planned—and handed the platters of eggs and meats off to the serving maids now waiting at the passage door. A basket of yesterday's bread—not nearly enough, but the bread in the oven wasn't done yet.

What was happening? Jaim took out a bucket of kitchen waste—eggshells and a bit of cheese rind and such—through the stableyard and on to the pigsty; he came back with news that almost every horse in the stable was being saddled. So they were going somewhere, but where? And why? Few traveled in winter.

She smelled the bread, brought it out and thumped the loaves. Another short while...back in it went. "Clean up this mess," she said to the others. "We've got travel bread to make and supplies to pack." Travel bread, hard, flat sheets, had an easy dough; no waiting for yeast to rise. She started the dough, setting the others to slice cheese and sausage into the right sizes for saddlebags, and was rolling it out when Lady Verrakai came in with her grandson. Everyone stopped and made their bows, including Farin.

"How long?" Lady Verrakai asked.

"It's just ready to bake now, milady," Farin said. "Takes half a ladyglass to bake for a short trip, a full ladyglass to last more than five days."